


The Alkahest

by shadukiam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 83
Words: 372,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6030910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadukiam/pseuds/shadukiam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Marriage Law, once enacted, has the power to destroy Hermione's perfectly normal life. Luckily, she and Ron are already planning to obey the horrific law together as a team... Until a Malfoy-shaped wrench gets thrown into the works. Dramione.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Arm Of The Law

  


**The Alkahest**

**Chapter One: The Long Arm Of The Law**

  


…

  


“Hermione, I beg of you. I'm begging. Look at me, here. On my knees. _Begging_.”

  


She refused to look, glaring at the parchments she was trying (and failing) to read. “Harry, get off my floor,” she demanded. “I'm not doing it. Not after last time.”

  


She heard Harry's knees scuffling closer, and sighed when she felt his clasped hands fall against her knees. “Do you know how long it's been since I've been alone with my wife, Hermione?” he asked, slow and deliberate. “All those lonely morning showers--”

  


“ _Don't you dare_ ,” Hermione breathed, lowering the parchments finally to smack the stack repeatedly into Harry's wincing, grinning face. “We had a deal. We don't _tell each other_ about our sex lives with our _friends_.”

  


“I can't help it. The built-up randiness is killing me. And Ginny. She hasn't even had a _chance_ to use that vibrator she got. James and Albus takes up her every waking moment. And I'd know, because it's very loud,” he added, eyes narrowing a bit as he regarded her. “The vibrator. You can hear it throughout the whole house.”

  


Hermione screamed in disgust, throwing her stack of parchments on the table. Because this was _clearly_ war. She leveled an impressive glare on him for a moment before the fire in her eyes dampened to something calculating and smug. “Ronald's penis has freckles,” she said, coolly.

  


Harry gagged impressively. “No, don't!”

  


“ _And_ his testicles have--”

  


“No!” he shouted at her, lunging forward to cover her mouth with his hands. She continued to speak under them, and he was pretty sure he heard 'pubic' in there somewhere. “No, no. Don't. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I take it back. She doesn't even have one, I swear.”

  


Hermione stopped speaking, glaring at him suspiciously, and he slowly lowered his hands.

  


“Please,” he whispered. “Bill's out of the country, Charlie's busy with work, Percy's got his head up his arse, Molly just feeds them cotton candy until they puke, and I can't trust George not to give them something that blows up the house. There's only you and Ron, and Ron will only do it if you do it with him.”

  


“That's because he hates changing nappies,” she grumbled.

  


“I promise, I _promise_ , I've inspected James' room thoroughly and he has no traps, joke toys from George's shop, nothing. Nothing will happen,” he beseeched her.

  


“He turned my _hair_ blue,” Hermione huffed. “I had to go to work like that for three weeks.”

  


“Technically,” Harry pointed out, in an unsure tone, because correcting Hermione was never the best way to get her to do a favor. “You should blame _George_ for giving him that color bomb in the first place. It was an _awful_ thing to do. Damn him. Damn that George straight to the fiery abyss,” he added, almost plaintively, as he grew increasingly desperate.

  


“Oh, shut up,” she said, crossly. “You laughed yourself sick for days.”

  


He widened his eyes a bit, putting a bit of a pout on. Slowly, his hands returned to their clasped position as he silently entreated her unimpressed glare.

  


But, as always, Hermione felt her stubborn nature crack under the force of his pleading. There was little Harry could ask for that she could refuse; some people assumed it was the war that made them like that, but their old schoolmates recalled often that they'd always been like that with each other – almost like long-lost twins finding each other after eleven years away. They'd stuck their necks out for each other well beyond the normal range of mere friendship.

  


Her breath left her in a gusty, annoyed sigh. “Fine, I'll watch James and Albus with Ron,” she agreed.

  


Harry's grin flashed. “You're so brilliant, Hermione. And kind, and wonderful. And so pretty when you're scowling.”

  


“Don't push your luck,” she said, sourly.

  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  


The next Friday found Hermione meeting Ron for a quick coffee before Flooing to Grimmauld Place. She brushed at his jumper, earning a blinking glance, and explained, “Scone crumbs.”

  


Ron flashed her that easy, humorous smile she'd fallen slowly in love with over the years. It didn't make her stomach flip anymore, but then, she rather thought the fireworks of early love were overrated, anyhow. Everyone always suggested that people should 'marry their best friend,' after all. Lives tended to stretch a lot longer than actual romances.

  


As soon as they entered, Ginny was running down a list of things Ron was _not_ to do, making the ginger-haired man groan in agony. “Aren't you going on a _date_?” he reminded her. “Go, I won't kill my nephews, I swear. And Hermione's here, anyway, to keep me from being dumb, remember?”

  


Ginny shot him a wary glare and turned to Hermione. “That list stands. No broom flying, no levitating, no sweets before dinner, and don't let him swear in front of them. James has said nothing but 'bloody' this and 'bloody' that since the last time Ron watched him,” she complained.

  


Harry began ushering her to the fireplace. “Time's wasting, Ginny,” he cajoled, grinning brightly at his friends as he shoved her protesting form into the fire. Before following, he muttered, “And I aim to make the best of it.”

  


Then, he was gone.

  


After a moment, Ron grumbled, “That comment best not have meant what I think it did.”

  


Hermione burst out laughing. “I suppose I've no comment, then.”

  


Ron groaned in disgust, pulling a face. “I'll _never_ get used to it. Never. She could be eight children in and I'd still be of the opinion they were conceived immaculately.”

  


“Actually, did you know, the immaculate conception was likely not meant to have referred to a virgin giving birth--”

  


“Stop, no. No boring Muggle facts in front of my nephews,” Ron warned her. At her indignant squawk, he grinned, the corners of his eyes creasing as he crowded her space all of a sudden and planted a kiss – soft, and warm, and familiar – before releasing her and heading towards James' room upstairs. “Who wants a lolly?” he bellowed up the stairs.

  


“Wh-- Ronald _Bilius_ Weasley, no, you will _not_!” Hermione screeched after him, tearing up the stairs herself.

  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  


Six hours later, Harry and Ginny slunk in through the Floo with their hands intertwined, their hair a mess, and sleepy-contented smiles on their face. Ron glared at them, lips pursed, from the couch.

  


“Ew,” Ron intoned, pointing at Harry. “And ew,” he added, moving his finger to Ginny.

  


“Grow up,” Ginny chortled, her smile widening.

  


Hermione grinned, her heart feeling full – full of this _moment_. Her friends, and her boyfriend. She felt happy, and she immediately felt herself beginning to analyze that happiness, and tried to stop the process before she chased it away. Pushing to her feet, she grabbed Ron's hand. “I'd hug you both, but I don't want to collect any wayward fluids,” she said, eyebrow raising as she regarded them both.

  


“Oh! _Ew_ ,” Ron whined. “Hermione, why?”

  


Laughing, she bid her goodbyes to her friends and pulled him into the Floo, to her place. Somehow, she managed to make him set aside his residual feelings of disgust for the evening, and they spent a good hour doing just what Ron imagined Ginny never did.

  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  


The next morning, she woke up early, as usual.

  


Unusually, though, Ron was awake and watching her. Jolting a bit at the realization, Hermione blinked at him, awkwardly smiling at the serious look on his face.

  


“Morning, love,” he murmured.

  


“Good morning,” she returned, her voice a little hoarse from sleep. “I can't believe you're up this early. It is early, isn't it? What time is it...”

  


“Half six,” he assured her. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but couldn't find the words to get it out. After a few moments of trying, he gave up, looking strangely defeated and a little sad.

  


Frowning, Hermione rolled towards him. “What's wrong?”

  


He struggled a bit more, and finally settled on, “Do you ever think about why we never moved in together?”

  


“What?” she asked, dumbly, blinking.

  


“I mean, we've dated almost four years,” he reminded her. They'd started up right after the war ended with them as victors, but Hermione had gotten cold feet, and had broken things off before they really started. She'd gone to university for a time after getting her parents back – a magical university, in Barcelona, Spain. They'd written to each other plenty, as did she and Harry and Ginny, but it had just been as friends.

  


When she'd come back, sporting a tan and feeling a lot freer than she had in a while, the relationship seemed to already be in place, sparking off right where they'd left things off. It had been explosive (in that good way), and full of laughter.

  


It had been nice.

  


She shifted on the bed, pulling the sheets around her a bit, fiddling. “I didn't know you wanted to take that step,” she finally said, haltingly, feeling a twinge of guilt. She'd guessed he had, but she was so _particular_ about her personal space. After leaving the dorms of university, she'd sworn never to have a flatmate again.

  


His mouth pulled in that crooked smile. “You didn't?” he challenged wryly, although his voice was soft, almost fond.

  


She shot him a guilty look. “You know I love you.”

  


“I love you, too. But, sometimes, I just... I think, that maybe... this isn't working.”

  


Stunned, Hermione just stared at him. He swallowed, hastening to try and explain himself.

  


“Not the love part, because obviously that's real. And not the time we spend together, because obviously I wouldn't trade that for anything else in the whole world,” he continued. “It's just that sometimes I think... maybe we're trying too hard to make this more than just a friendship.”

  


“This is...” She swallowed. “A very odd conversation to have naked, in my bed.”

  


He winced. “Sorry. But can you honestly tell me you don't feel it, sometimes? Like maybe we're just together because it's... because we know it, already? Because we expected to be, and so did everyone else? We know all the words to each other by heart, by now. I'd reckon I even know you better than Harry does, and up until a year ago I didn't think it was even _possible_ to know you better than Harry does.” He chuckled at the notion, equal parts proud and self-deprecating. Then, he sobered, his brown eyes finding hers again. “But I don't excite you, do I?”

  


She swallowed again, her throat feeling strangely raw. She couldn't exactly refute what he was saying, and the fact that he was saying it meant he probably felt similarly, but it still _hurt_ to think of possibly letting this relationship go.

  


It felt... pleasant. Like a warm blanket. Like friendship, she realized.

  


“And I don't excite you,” she whispered, the realization hitting her hard. His smile was wry, a little twisted by some inner guilt, and she closed her eyes as she let it sink in. She'd been so full of herself, then, hadn't she? Thinking that he'd been over the moon for her, letting herself play a little bit the martyr in continuing the relationship even though it wasn't exactly exciting or adventurous or even all that romantic.

  


But in reality, he'd been in the same boat, wondering how to navigate the feelings they'd had for each other as teenagers that had failed to mature along with them.

  


Her inhale was shaky, and his arms suddenly flew around her. “Don't cry, 'Mione, don't,” he begged. “You know I can't bear it when you cry.”

  


“I'm trying not to,” she whimpered, her face growing hot with embarrassment.

  


They fell silent, and for a while – an hour, or maybe longer, she figured – they just held each other in her bed, seeking comfort and knowing that the sobering reality of The End was fast approaching.

  


In the end, he'd left without breakfast, both of them feeling too awkward. The kiss before the Floo had been heartfelt, full of apologies, and perfect for the both of them. They couldn't exactly resolve what they were going to tell their friends, and Ron suggested meeting up for coffee at the usual time and place in a few days to figure out the particulars.

  


She'd agreed, feeling strangely relieved that apparently breaking up as lovers didn't mean they were going to have a temporary or even semi-permanent ban on seeing each other. Even if it wasn't as lovers, or boyfriend and girlfriend, or even husband and wife... she couldn't bear to just see him walk out of her life _entirely_.

  


And thank God he seemed to feel the same.

  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  


Molly had taken the news the hardest, of course. They'd kind of expected that. She'd immediately burst into tears, which prompted a guilt trip of such epic proportions that Hermione felt the words “just kidding” start gathering on her tongue, just to see the horrific sobbing end. But then Ron had folded his hand on hers and smiled at her, a reassuring and almost amused twist of his lips beneath those sad eyes, and she felt stronger.

  


Everyone but George and Harry seemed shocked by the turn of events. George's response had been to clap his hands and declare, “That Angelina owes me a Galleon!”

  


Harry had simply accepted the news with a wry twist of his lips. Hermione found that she wasn't really surprised that he'd somehow known ages before she and Ron that things weren't going to pan out. He had a knack for seeing the bigger picture of things. He'd held Hermione as she cried, assuring her that it wasn't stupid to be upset, even though she'd always sort of known it was going to end one day.

  


Ginny had been more than a little confused (apparently Harry's intuitive nature wasn't something the youngest Weasley shared), even more so when Ron and Hermione insisted that this hadn't been brought about because of a row they'd had.

  


Finally, she'd asked, “Are you both still coming to my Quidditch game?”

  


Hermione scoffed. “We're still friends, Ginny. We're leaving things amicably. There's no hard feelings.”

  


“Of course we'll go,” Ron agreed, laughing and throwing a protective arm over Hermione's shoulders.

  


Ginny relaxed. “Oh, well if that's the case, then alright,” she said, with a bit of a shrug. As long as they were still going to be the same four friends they'd always been, she truly didn't seem to care if Ron and Hermione were romantically intertwined or not.

  


Harry stifled a smile. “My wife. Such a tactful woman. Should've been a diplomat, really. She's wasting her life away with those Harpies, when she could be negotiating delicate peace treaties.”

  


She'd stuck her tongue out at him, which he'd taken as a ready invitation to kiss, leaving her squealing with surprise and laughter.

  


“Still here,” Ron said, loudly. Pointedly.

  


Beneath the miasma of sadness, Hermione felt a twinge of that happiness she'd felt on the night before Ron ended things, and fought back a small laugh as she thought, _Maybe things really will be alright._

  


So life wasn't going to plan, exactly. All things considered – and as much as she did truly love Ron, as one of her best and closest friends – she could finally admit to herself that maybe it was a good thing that her life had suddenly decided to go bottoms up on her.

  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  


Their resolution to remain friends made the first few weeks occasionally awkward. Hermione would find herself stepping close to him automatically when saying goodbye, looking for a kiss. Ron would, every once in a while, wrap his arm around her waist when he wasn't thinking.

  


After that first awkward period, though, things relaxed, and she discovered that being friends with Ron wasn't as hard as she'd pictured it might be. In fact, it was amazingly easy, sometimes, something she rather thought could almost entirely be attributed to him. Although a hothead of epic proportions, Hermione was still left occasionally breathless by the amount of love and passion that could be found in a single person, and even if they'd realized they didn't want to _be_ together, it seemed he had no trouble allowing that love to manifest platonically.

  


Sometimes, he'd look across the table at her when they were at the pub with all their friends, his gaze warm, and she'd feel more content than she could remember feeling since Barcelona. The teenaged love they'd felt for each other settled, becoming a steady thrum of something steadier, and more sure, and she realized that she almost felt as close to him as she did to Harry, sometimes. And with Harry and Ginny being so wrapped up in their family life, Hermione found that the sudden lack of pressure on her relationship with Ron made her want to spend much more time with him as just friends.

  


She even inquired about his dating, once, although he'd shrugged and said he wasn't in a hurry to rush into anything.

  


“Really?” she asked, surprised. Honestly, the Ron she knew before being involved with him had always been blundering through one relationship after a next, almost desperate to never be alone.

  


He thought for a moment, and then nodded, slowly. “You know, it's so hard to think of myself as separate from you, sometimes? I think it's time I get to know myself as... well, as Ron. Ron-Without-Hermione. I feel like I haven't seen that bloke in years,” he added, in a dry tone.

  


“Oh, you poor thing, getting shagged on the regular for four years. How _trying_ that must have been for you,” she snipped.

  


“Don't you make light. Going back to my hand has been bloody awful,” he admitted.

  


She snorted with laughter.

  


“What about you? Not that you were ever one to fall headfirst into relationships.”

  


She shook her head, sobering a bit. “There's no one I know of that I even fancy, if I'm being honest. And to be _perfectly_ honest, I've looked around the office some, trying to see some of the people at the Ministry as potential boyfriends, but... I just can't imagine it with any of them. Maybe I'm destined to be alone.”

  


“Don't be daft,” he said, sipping his beer. “You still have that blasted cat.”

  


She slapped his arm, making him spill some of his ale, forcing an indignant shout out of him. But she was smiling, and so was he, and Hermione realized that she rather _liked_ Ronald Weasley, even without the aid of that little crush she'd always had on him. She'd always kind of morbidly wondered if, had she not been a teensy bit in love with him all these years, they might never have been friends at all.

  


As they shared in laughter, she sipped her own ale and realized, _I'm happy. For real. I'm actually very happy._ She felt confident, for the first time in several weeks, that everything was going to be just fine.

  


That feeling persisted, and then she knew everything was going to work out for the best, after all.

  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  


That is, until seven months later, when the _Daily Prophet_ landed on her breakfast table with the screaming headline:

  


**Ministry passes scandalous “Marriage Law”!**


	2. A Wrench in the Works

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Two: A Wrench In The Works**

 

…

“How could this have happened without us even hearing about it?” Hermione wondered for the fiftieth time, looking into the distraught faces of her best friends. “No one in the whole Ministry even knew.”

 

Harry frowned. “I did hear in passing that recently, a lot of marriage licenses weren't getting approved, but I heard that was just because the applications were getting piled up since the administrative office was downsized. I guess they were just waiting for it to pass.”

 

“This is absolutely crazy,” Ron whispered, staring at the headline. “They can't possibly expect anyone to actually go through with this.”

 

Hermione looked grim. “They can and they probably do. This is the Ministry of Magic we're talking about, Ronald,” she reminded him. “The same institution that upholds a variety of laws that persecute wizards and witches just for having the wrong blood status.” Her tone had taken on a bitterness as she reminded him of that constant threat of pureblood supremacy and bigotry.

 

“Those pureblooded gits must be having kittens,” Ron muttered, looking almost darkly amused by the thought. “In any case, I daresay none of them will agree that this law is in _their_ best interests. They'll probably just start rampantly binding with each other. The pureblood families always do their bindings with old magic, anyway. The licenses are just a formality.”

 

She nodded. “The law's drafters seem to have thought of that, too – performing old marriage rituals will be persecuted as actual felonies, according to the article. Complete with time in Azkaban.”

 

“I bet some of them do it anyway, rather than let a Muggle-born into the family to pollute their precious, inbred bloodlines.”

 

“I feel bad for any Muggle-borns that have to marry _into_ those awful families,” Ginny said, frowning. “Can you imagine what kind of life that would be? To have to marry into and possibly _live with_ a group of people who just...”

 

“Hate you,” Harry finished, looking pale.

 

Hermione swallowed. “Well, that was a stark reminder of my future,” she muttered.

 

“You can't possibly be considering going through with this daft law,” Ron exclaimed, looking alarmed.

 

“It doesn't look like I'll be presented with a choice,” Hermione pointed out. She clasped her hands on her teacup so that the others wouldn't see them shaking. “I'd have to look at the law itself, but I doubt there's a lot of loopholes to take advantage of. Some of the finest legislators in the magical _world_ work for the Ministry.”

 

“But you're _Hermione Granger_ , famed Know-It-All of Hogwarts. If there's a way around it, you'd find it,” Harry said, leaning towards her. “Surely whatever you need is in a book somewhere. It always is.”

 

She smiled wryly. “I didn't _say_ I was going to take this lying down,” she scoffed. Sobering, she added, “But we mustn't get our hopes up.”

 

“What 'we'? We're already married, and so we're excused from the proceedings.” Ginny leaned into Harry contentedly.

 

Ron glared at them. “Goody for you.”

 

Harry grimaced in apology. “Hermione, is there a word in some obscure language that means, 'while we're sorry for your misfortunes, by golly are we excited that those same misfortunes shall not befall us'?”

 

“Harry, I'm going to hit you,” she promised, eyes narrowing.

 

“There's probably a word for that in German,” Ginny said, looking thoughtful. “They always have those oddly specific ones.”

 

“Maybe there's also a word for 'I hope you choke on your marital bliss, you bunch of prats,'” Ron grumbled, draining his tea and standing. “And maybe one for, 'And I'm leaving because your happy relationship is making a mockery of my misfortune.'”

 

“I'm leaving, too.” Hermione stood.

 

“We were just kidding!” Ginny protested. “Sit down.”

 

Ron made a face at her and slipped out anyway, although Hermione allowed herself to be persuaded to stay for at least one more cup of tea.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The law itself was going to go into effect in one month – that was when the first match would be declared. Purebloods would be forced to marry Muggle-borns or half-bloods, for the good of the British wizarding community. Hermione was hardly sure what to make of the assertion that pureblood inbreeding was resulting in a higher likelihood of squibs. After all, there were enough purebloods around that intermarrying without inbreeding should be possible, provided each family was somewhat careful about it.

 

Furthermore, she'd read in a Muggle science journal that people as close as first cousins could have babies with the same chance of birth defects as woman giving birth when they were already over the age of forty. That is to say, it was a rather small percentage.

 

Of course, this was the Ministry. She doubted the phenomenon of squibbery had been studied for more than three minutes before some idiot had started drafting the first iteration of the law. The Ministry could be horribly frustrating and slow most of the time, and then when it came to making bad decisions, it worked so quickly it took her breath away.

 

After three years of working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she knew just what a fickle beast the bureaucracy could be. Some of her own items that she considered to be of the utmost importance had taken months or even years to push through, while many of her smaller projects had gotten approved with barely any effort. “Capricious” didn't even begin to describe how the Ministry truly worked.

 

Hermione had finally gotten her hands on the actual law, and spent a whole afternoon studying every word of it. The basic gist of it was that a pureblood and a non-pureblood had to marry, and were permitted up to one year of engagement before matrimony was enforced. The two were matched based upon a series of rigorous testing that would prove that they had less than a 2% chance of having a squib. She was very interested in seeing what kind of _test_ they could devise that could possibly manage to prove that.

 

After the match was declared to both parties, the witch had until her thirty-second birthday or four years (if she was already 29 or older) to beget a child; the “generous” time limit was so that a career-minded witch could still at least have something of a life before pregnancy put everything on hold for a year. She scoffed at the idea that a law like this could be, in any way, “generous.”

 

The marriage could be dissolved through divorce either upon the birth of two magically gifted children, or after ten years as long as there was one magically gifted child. If no child had been produced within the time limit provided, the couple would have to present proof that attempts had been made.

 

So, should she be unable to challenge the law itself, there was at least an exit strategy built into it. It made a twisted sort of sense; the Ministry didn't care about happy marriages, it just wanted non-Squib babies out of every able-bodied witch in the country. The more babies, the better, and once the world was full of screaming babies, apparently the “crisis” would be concluded and everyone could return to normal.

 

As in, the so-called “Marriage Law” would only remain in effect for the next ten years, after which the Ministry expected such a population boom as to remove the necessity for the law indefinitely.

 

It was all positively barmy, especially the part where single witches over the age of thirty-five weren't even expected to participate. Wizards over the age of forty-five weren't expected to participate, either. Nor were any witches or wizards who had previously been married, whether their marriage had ended I death or a divorce.

 

If it was so important to plump up the baby economy, why had the Ministry decided to cut out so many possible pairings? While it was true that women seemed to have less chances of successful birth as they grew older, there was no science that suggested a man in his sixties couldn't produce perfectly acceptable sperm.

 

The other exception to the law – infertile or sterile persons would be exempt – at least made sense, although anyone trying to prove their sterility or infertility had to undergo what she understood to be an incredibly invasive medical procedure, courtesy of the Ministry itself.

 

After dissecting every word, Hermione had to conclude that there wasn't a mistake within it that could be capitalized upon.

 

So she paid a visit to Hogwarts, getting permission from Headmistress McGonagall to check out as many books from the library as she needed. She had a month to figure out if this law was, in fact, lawful – or if it could be dodged in any way. She could only pray there was some archaic measure put into place to prevent turning every witch of the right age into national broodmares.

 

Surely there must be.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“You're running yourself ragged,” Ron noted. “When was the last time you got eight straight hours of sleep?”

 

“I can sleep when I'm dead,” she insisted, stretched across her couch. “Can you believe there is not a single pre-existing law that would somehow negate this madness?”

 

He considered it. “Sadly, yeah. I can.”

 

She was half-asleep, her eyes closed. “What are we going to do?”

 

“Maybe we should do it. Get married. To each other,” he clarified, sounding a little uncertain.

 

 _That_ woke her up. Her eyes snapped open. “What?”

 

He looked uncomfortable. “I mean, if I have to, anyway... I'm pureblooded. And I'd rather... you than some stranger,” he added. “And I hope you'd consider me to be a better alternative to some other pureblood. Besides, if I had to have babies with anyone, you'd be the best one to have 'em with, what with your brains. I don't want stupid babies.” He trailed off, his face going red as he scratched the back of his neck.

 

“Didn't you read the law? We don't get to choose,” she reminded him. “We're paired off by the Matchmaker's Committee.”

 

“Well, my dad and Percy might be able to put in a word for us. And hell, if we can get Harry to come in and be famous at the right people, maybe they'd tweak the results a little in our favor,” he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I know it's not what we really want, but... well, we could always divorce after, like the law says. And at least I love you, even if it's not precisely the right kind of love. And I'd hate to see you stuck with some bigoted arsehole that won't even treat you right.” He started to look and sound considerably upset as he thought about it – what if she was put with a _former Death Eater_ or some other Voldemort-sympathizer?

 

Overcome with fondness, Hermione smiled at him. “Alright,” she agreed.

 

His eyebrows shot up. “Come again?”

 

“I said, 'alright,'” she repeated, slowly, grin widening. “If I had to have any babies... well, I'd rather they be yours than some Death Eater's, obviously.”

 

“ _So_ glad you added that part, just to make it so absolutely clear that you're only agreeing because the rest of the field is full of arseholes and bigots,” he muttered, although he seemed pleased that she'd agreed, anyway.

 

She sniffed, looking prim. “Well, I wouldn't want you to go and get a big head over it.”

 

He chuckled. “Always looking out for me, aren't you?”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Harry had agreed to try and throw his weight around, although he didn't seem to think that his fame had as much clout as Ron clearly did. Hermione wasn't sure it did, either, but when it came to a matter of this level of importance, she wasn't above hedging her bets with every possible advantage.

 

Arthur Weasley readily agreed to try and shift matters in their favor, although Percy had become gravely offended that anyone thought him capable of “twisting the law” like that.

 

After some badgering from his mother, though, he'd relented and begrudgingly agreed to try his best.

 

It was a tense few weeks before Arthur finally came home during a family get-together with a smile on his face. “I just spoke to Nancy Arles, secretary to one Rastian Howles, the head of the Matchmaker's. They did prove that there was the acceptable less-than-two-percent chance of a squib and she said Howles had agreed to put your names together.”

 

Hermione felt like she'd been punched, with the force of the exhale. Relief hit her like a train, and she turned to Ron and threw her arms around him as the rest of the family cheered.

 

“That just leaves George,” Ron said, breathlessly. “And Percy, of course.”

 

“Don't worry about me,” George laughed. “As long as she's not ugly, I'll get on fine. Percy, though, I have some doubts about. My poor brother's inclinations, I'm sure, do not lean towards the female variety.”

 

Molly glared at him. “Don't gossip about your brother while he's gone.”

 

Hermione heaved another sigh of relief. It wasn't perfect, of course, but it was... well, it was better than she could have possibly expected this disaster to turn out. Feeling like the weight of the world had fallen off her shoulders, she tucked into dinner. After telling Harry to stop chewing with his mouth open like a _troll_ , he snipped, “Good to see you're back to being your usual bossy self, 'Mione.”

 

“When should we plan the wedding?” Molly wondered, dreamily, earning an eyeroll from Ginny.

 

“We should wait until it gets announced, at least. They won't let us get the license until then, anyway,” Hermione pointed out, and felt Ron squeeze her hand beneath the table. She shot him a smile.

 

Crisis sort-of averted, then.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It turned out Molly had truly jumped the gun.

 

Once the first match had been announced, Howles' committee kept things going at as fast a pace as they could, but given the amount of eligible witches and wizards in Britain, it was taking a while to get through them all.

 

It was four months after the first announcement when Hermione finally got the letter bidding her to come to the clerk's office, informing her that she was encouraged to bring her parents. A lot of Muggle-borns were receiving those instructions, and she wondered if that was because pureblooded parents were _sure_ to be in attendance, regardless of whether or not they'd been invited.

 

Either way, she'd already told her parents of the law and her plan with Ron, although they'd been confused and horrified about the existence of the law at all. Her mother in particular had beseeched her to just leave, perhaps to return to Barcelona until things in Britain stopped being so... draconian.

 

She'd considered it, her parents' reaction somewhat reminding her of the momentousness of this law, and what it meant. This law was setting a precedence of invasiveness that could only lead to worse things down the road.

 

But Kingsley Shacklebolt was the Minister, she reminded herself. He was a good man. If he'd signed this law into existence, she had to assume he knew what he was doing. Or, at least, that's what Harry told her when she'd floo-called him to talk about her new, pervasive doubts. And she did trust Harry. If Harry was being calm about this, and if even _Ron_ was being calm about this, she couldn't go flying off the handle. She was supposed to be the reasonable one.

 

In the end, she'd decided not to let this law chase her out of the world she'd come to love. It was just a law, and not forever. Just a child and ten years, or two children and considerably less, and she could be free again to love whomever she wished. So could Ron. They could make this work, and it was going to be _fine_.

 

So, she called her parents, meeting them at her childhood home after they hastily left the office (canceling on several patients), and brought them back to the Ministry by the Floo she'd thankfully had the foresight to connect the Granger's home to.

 

They were ten minutes early for the meeting, and when she arrived with her parents, there was only a nervous-looking clerk.

 

She felt somewhat bad for him, in that moment. She couldn't imagine he had a pleasant job, doing this.

 

The clerk at the table stood, adjusting his glasses as he offered her a nervous smile. “Ah, Miss Hermione Granger, right? Hello, I'm Jeffrey Winston, of the Marriage Act Committee. These are your parents, I trust, yes? Please, sit.” He waited for them all to seat themselves before he folded his tall, thin frame back into his own chair, vibrating with nervous, cheery energy.

 

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Winston,” Hermione said, cordially. “This is David and Rose Granger, my father and mother. Sorry we're early, and I'm afraid Ron has a habit of being late.”

 

He blinked at her, a little confused. “Not at all, Miss Granger,” he said, a little uncertainly.

 

She frowned a bit. Something dreadful settled in the pit of her stomach, but she didn't have time to examine it.

 

The door opened, and she turned to see none other than Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy swan into the room, their son Draco following with somewhat less grace and a great deal more bitterness.

 

“Oh, hello, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy,” Winston said, smiling broadly and nervously once more.

 

Hermione stared at them, shock permeating her entire being. “Um... Am I in the wrong room?” she asked, dumbly, looking around. Her parents looked confused; this was not Ron Weasley, whom Hermione had assured them she was marrying.

 

“Of course not, Miss Granger,” Winston exclaimed.

 

“Then are they?” she demanded, pointing at the blonde family as they sat across the conference table from her and her parents.

 

Winston blinked. “Ah, no, Miss Granger.”

 

“I don't...” Hermione murmured, shaking her head a little in confusion. “No, what are they doing here?”

 

“I... thought that should be clear,” Winston said, awkwardly. “The younger Mr. Malfoy would be your match.”

 

“No, Ron is my match,” she said, her voice growing a little shrill with panic. “Ronald Weasley.” She felt her mother's hand settle on her arm; Rose Granger was confused, but all she knew was that her daughter was upset, and she wanted to calm her.

 

Winston stared at her in bemusement, and looked at his papers. “I'm sorry, Miss Granger, but your match is Mister Malfoy,” he said, utterly confused by her outburst.

 

Her mind went blank, her stomach feeling somewhat like lead as she struggled to make the words Winston was saying make any sort of sense. Her eyes darted between the three imperious purebloods sitting across from her as her brain churned sluggishly to come to terms with what he was saying. Hermione's eyes caught against Draco's, his a stormy-grey and no less troubled, and she felt her stomach heave.

 

Lucius looked disdainful of her emotional reaction, although Narcissa, at least, looked suitably concerned (if a tiny bit offended).

 

She was frozen, her eyes going to the table as she tried desperately to process this. _This could not be happening_.

 

In her silence, Winston cleared his throat awkwardly, and began to speak, mostly repeating the stipulations of the Marriage Act that she'd already memorized by then. She tuned out for most of it, until suddenly his voice penetrated the fog in her brain with, “... Of course, our suggestion is that the couple use a fertility potion during coitus to speed things along...”

 

Sex. With Malfoy. She would have to have _sex_. With _Malfoy_.

 

Bile pressed up into her throat, and she swallowed it back, pressing her hand to her neck and closing her eyes. She would _not_ throw up. She was in a very important, life-altering meeting with her parents and her future husband and – and parents-in-law –

 

Oh, she was going to be sick, and quite fantastically, too. She felt her mouth grow wet and swallowed desperately.

 

Rose's hand tightened on her daughter's wrist as she whispered, “Hermione, are you alright?”

 

“I'm sorry,” Hermione choked out, jumping to her feet and stumbling out of the conference room, leaving her parents, the nonplussed Malfoys, and the guilt-stricken Mr. Winston behind to stare at each other.

 

She must have found a bin, because a few seconds later, the sound of her retching carried into the room. David and Rose winced, blinking at their future in-laws. The Malfoy patriarch met their gaze almost politely, determined to ignore the noise. Narcissa summoned a faint smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, although her eyes flicked to the door a few times as she heard Hermione retch, concern warring with disgust on her delicate features. Draco did his best not to react, although his nose wrinkled slightly as he attempted to keep from following in Hermione's footsteps. The very sound of her losing her lunch made his own stomach twist in mutual, empathetic disgust.

 

Mr. Winston tidied his papers as he waited for the poor girl to stop. Then he tidied them again.

 

Lucius drummed his fingers across the snakehead of his cane, blinking serenely as he surveyed the room in one casual sweep of his eyes. “That is somewhat less than complimentary,” he commented, although he did not look very bothered or surprised.

 

Draco grunted an affirmative.

 

“Perhaps she ate something that disagreed with her,” Narcissa suggested, although not very convincingly.

 

“She did eat some salmon,” Rose volunteered, weakly. She glanced at her husband, who was staring resolutely into the table as he tried to ignore Hermione's violent retching. “Three, um, three days ago,” she added, with a slight grimace.

 

The gagging and retching persisted for another minute, until finally Draco scowled, belatedly realizing how offended he should be.

 

Miraculously, the sounds stopped, and they all held their breath for a moment in hopes that the awkward moment was over. After ten seconds of silence, another loud gagging noise filtered in through the open door. “Oh, _come on_ ,” Draco snapped to the silent room, his scowl deepening. Catching his father's warning look, he added, defensive, “Well, it's not like I'm swimming the English Channel to prove my adoration for _her_ , either, but at least I'm keeping my lunch where it ought to be.”

 

“Quiet,” Lucius advised, his drawling tone doing little to disguise the command beneath. Narcissa patted Draco's arm comfortingly.

 

The sounds of squishy sickness finally faded, and after a few more moments, Hermione re-entered the room with one of those little paper cups at the water cooler, sipping delicately. Her pale, waxen expression had the usual sheen of someone who'd recently vomited. She did her best to look unruffled and calm as she rejoined her parents at the table.

 

Draco glared at her as Winston tapped his papers together for the fiftieth time.

 

“Right,” the bespectacled man murmured, mustering up a smile for everyone. “In any event, the law does state that an engagement must begin, ah, immediately, although it may extend for as long as one year before, um, nuptials... are expected.”

 

“And there's... no way out of this,” David said.

 

“Well, she could give up her wand and exit the wizarding community, if she so chose,” Winston said, looking faintly apologetic.

 

“Well, that's certainly something to think about,” Rose pointed out. She understood that magic was important to Hermione, but surely not important enough to _sell herself_ into a loveless marriage?

 

“Indeed,” the elder Malfoy droned, a faint smirk touching the corners of his lips. “Perhaps she should seriously consider this.”

 

“No,” Hermione bit out, coming out of her stupor enough to fix Draco's father with what she considered to be one of her best Basilisk stares. His eyebrow twitched faintly in amusement, and she fought the childish urge to crumple up her paper water cup and lob it right into his stupid aristocrat face. “I'm not going anywhere. I belong in this world just as much as you do.”

 

“That remains to be seen,” Lucius disagreed, coolly.

 

“Lucius,” Narcissa murmured, disapprovingly.

 

“What, _still_?” Hermione demanded, hotly, ignoring Narcissa's attempted intervention as she glared at Draco's father. He really had some nerve, still acting like a pompous git after she had played such an enormous role in trouncing the absolute pants off of the Dark Lord Voldemort. At the age of _seventeen_ , no less. “How many _more_ attempted usurpers to the fictional Wizarding Britain throne do I have to put six feet under just to get the recognition that I deserve to practice magic?”

 

She expected him to snap back at her, but strangely, her outburst only served to make him more smug and self-assured. She grit her teeth, grinding them together as he leaned back in his chair to regard her with amusement, tellingly silent; making it clear that he didn't consider her even worth responding to.

 

“Hermione, don't grind your teeth,” her mother chided her.

 

Her father cleared his throat. “I suppose I don't really understand,” David admitted. “It seems no one at this table really wants them to be married, so why do we have to just sit here and allow this to happen, again?”

 

“Because it's the law and neither of us fancy the prospect of getting our wands snapped,” Draco muttered. “Can we just get the contracts drawn up and signed, already? I have something to do today that _doesn't_ involve listening to Granger retch into a wastebasket, and I'm rather eager to move on to that part.”

 

“Draco,” Narcissa said, and although her voice was sweet, there was an undercurrent of steel there that instantly had Draco's mouth snapping shut. “Please mind your manners. This is a formal meeting.”

 

Winston waved his wand over the papers, duplicating them and passing a copy to each side. “These are the standard contracts, although quite a few pureblood families do seem to like modifying them. As long as these stipulations remain within the final contract, they can be added to as much as either party wishes.”

 

Lucius slid the papers over to himself after pinning them with his cane. “I shall have my solicitor go over the documents and make necessary changes. When must they be signed?”

 

“Within three days.”

 

“Then I shall send the final documents to Miss Granger's abode in three days,” he determined.

 

Hermione stared at him incredulously. “No, you'll send them over tomorrow so that I can review it and we can discuss alterations.”

 

“That will not be necessary, as I will not tolerate any alterations.”

 

She felt herself flush with fury, but thankfully Narcissa interceded before she could really say what was on her mind. “Of course we'd be happy to include you on the decision-making process,” she said, smoothly. “You'll find our additions will be quite standard.”

 

“Standard to which century, precisely?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

 

Draco inhaled, deeply, trying to calm himself. “Oh, she's absolutely impossible,” he whispered to himself, eyes going heavenwards as if to beseech some unknown god.

 

Silence reigned for a minute before Winston summoned another watery, fake smile. “Well, if that's all, then,” he said, with forced cheer. “I do have another set of families to, ah, betroth, if you're all settled.”

 

Hermione stood first, jaw clenched – whether out of anger or to keep another round of vomiting at bay was unknown – and stalked out of the room with the Ministry-issued marriage contract in her sweating fist. Her parents jumped to follow her, and Rose managed to keep her wits enough about her to offer, “Perhaps you all could join us for tea next week.”

 

She summoned a tight smile, although it was clear from her face that she truly did not understand the proceedings all that well, and hurried from the room.

 

Draco pushed to his feet, glaring sullenly about the room and finally announcing to no one in particular, “I'm not going to have _tea_ in some ugly muggle flat.”

 

“As I am loathe to admit them into the Manor, that may be unavoidable,” Lucius pointed out, leading the way out of the room.

 

Narcissa threaded her hand through the crook of Lucius' elbow. “You will likely have to admit them sooner or later, dearest,” she reminded him. “We can't very well exile our new in-laws from our home. It wouldn't be mannerly.”

 

“Of course you're right,” Lucius agreed, amicably enough.

 

Draco remained silent, watching Hermione stomp away with her frazzled parents in tow, her outrageous hair bouncing in time with her steps. “I'll end up hexing her before we make it to a week.”

 

“You will be on your best behavior,” Narcissa disagreed, firmly. “Now do come along, Draco, we have an appointment at Madame Malkin's to tailor your new dress robes.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Ron was outside of the clerk's office, having gotten Hermione's owl more than an hour earlier – telling him not to be late to their meeting to get betrothed, of course, before she'd known. He was still clutching the letter in his fist, pale. “You were called without me?”

 

The rage that had been building in her during the meeting finally broke, and after a hapless moment of trying to get the words out, Hermione burst into tears.

 

Her father's arms went around her as she felt Ron clasp her hands. Her mother huddled against her as well, trying to soothe her as she sobbed angrily in the middle of the clerk's office's lobby. She didn't even notice the Malfoy family slip out behind her and walk purposefully away – Draco shooting her an annoyed glance – but Ron sure did.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...


	3. A Tentative Plan of Action

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Three: A Tentative Plan of Action**

 

…

“This can't be,” Arthur said, his face pale, making his freckles stand out starkly on his face. “I asked around, and _everyone_ assured me that Ron and Hermione were paired.”

 

Her disgusting crying had finally dwindled down to the occasional hiccuping sob as she buried her face in Harry's chest, Ginny sitting behind her and rubbing her back soothingly. David and Rose looked distraught but still confused, not quite understanding why being married to Malfoy was worse than any of the other possibilities. Hermione had never really told them about his bullying in school, not wanting to give her parents any reason to try and withdraw her from Hogwarts.

 

Ron was pacing. “So they either lied to you, Dad, or it changed last-minute. They probably lied to you just to get you to stop pestering them,” he added, bitterly. “I can't believe this is happening. Hermione and... and that _ferret_.”

 

Harry smoothed Hermione's hair a little. “We'll have to look at that contract,” he said, finally, after being quiet for all the tirades and ugly sobbing. “Make sure there's something in there about... treating her right, you know? Make sure they don't... try and make her life hell. They can't possibly be happy about this. What if they try and take out their unhappiness on her?”

 

David looked alarmed. “What do you mean? Like, hurt her?”

 

Ginny and Harry just looked at each other, both remaining silent.

 

“That's it. You cannot go through with this, Hermione,” David said, his voice trembling. “Those people might _hurt_ you? Surely being able to keep your wand isn't worth that.”

 

Sniffling, Hermione straightened, staring at nothing for a moment. “No. I won't be chased out. That's just what they want,” she grit out, bitterly. “That's what they've always wanted. I won't let them have even that tiny victory. Never.” She sniffed again, inhaling deeply. “As soon as that contract comes, I'll have some clauses of my own to add. The first one being that I am never stepping foot in that hateful Manor.”

 

“Nobody can blame you for that,” Harry agreed, looking grim as he recalled that night of torture.

 

“Why do I feel like you're all having a conversation without us?” Rose finally asked, looking despondent. “It sounds like you're talking about a bunch of murderers.”

 

They all shared a look, silent.

 

“It doesn't matter. I've held my own against them before and I'll do it again,” Hermione said. “Besides, even they're not dumb enough to let me show up dead on their doorstep.”

 

“You should get a Vow,” Ron said, suddenly. “A Vow that they will not let any harm come to you. That _Draco_ Malfoy will never let any harm come to you. They'll never risk their son's life just to get back at a Muggle-born.”

 

“Are you so sure about that?” Harry's eyes narrowed. “They were certainly willing to risk it in sixth year.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Rose demanded, looking shaken.

 

Hermione sniffed for the final time, rubbing her nose on the back of her wrist. “Mum, Dad, let's get you home. I won't have you worrying about this, and it's late.”

 

“Hermione...”

 

“Please, not today,” she pleaded. “I'm all wrung out.”

 

They agreed, begrudgingly, and let Hermione Floo them home. She didn't bother going back to her friends, just went back to her own flat, desperate for the comfort of her bed.

 

She stepped out of her fireplace, already unzipping her jacket when she saw him lounging on her couch. Like he _owned_ the place. “Malfoy!” she gasped, unsure if she was furious or scared that he'd broken her wards. She leaned towards furious. Pulling her wand, she pointed it at him. “What are you doing here?”

 

He held up his hands, scoffing a bit. “Merlin, Granger, is that how you're going to greet me every time? I'm going to be your husband, you know.”

 

Her eyes were slits. “How did you get in?”

 

“I Apparated in.”

 

“My flat is warded.”

 

“Not very well,” he drawled, draping his arm across the back of the couch as he began lounging again. Hermione seethed; how dare he come into her home, uninvited, and then look so damn _comfortable_ there. After enduring her glare for upwards of a minute, he spoke. “Say, aren't you supposed to be offering me tea, or something?”

 

“You're not a guest,” she bit out.

 

“You're rude,” he observed. With a sigh, he stood. “I guess I'll get my own tea. Kitchen through here?”

 

“Just tell me what you're _doing_ here.”

 

He paused at the doorway of the kitchen, shooting her a supercilious look over his shoulder. “I'm here to talk. Shouldn't we be getting to know each other? Before we have to get to know each other in the biblical sense, that is.”

 

Sputtering, Hermione could only stare at him as he disappeared into her kitchen. Her face suffused with heat as she listened to him start opening cupboards and rattling around teacups.

 

Stomping after him, she shrieked, “Stop touching my _things_.” When he didn't, she pointed her wand at him. “ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

 

He froze mid-motion, his hand clasped around a mug's handle.

 

She stared at him, realizing that she couldn't very well keep him frozen in her kitchen forever. And perhaps she'd overreacted, since he was just getting tea. Except he'd broken into her home uninvited. But only to talk. She tugged her hands through her curls, trying to calm herself as the two sides of her brain warred each other.

 

Shakily, she ended the spell, and Malfoy whirled on her, his grey eyes cold with repressed fury. “Don't you ever raise your wand to me again,” he hissed.

 

“Well, what did you expect me to do?” she demanded. She was still pointing her wand at him, but she could see it shaking. “You can't just barge in here and start touching all of my stuff. I haven't even seen you in nearly seven years. You had no right.”

 

The trembling in her voice mortified her, but it seemed to calm him a bit. He was still angry, she could see that, but he pulled back, forcing his face to be calm. It was eerie, watching him collect himself so that he looked nonchalant and unaffected while his eyes looked so damning and hateful. “I just wanted to have tea and talk, Granger. Will you put that blasted wand down?” he added, his voice betraying his irritation.

 

She slowly lowered it, glaring at him suspiciously. Finally, though, when he couldn't find the teabags, she snapped, “Oh, just let me do it.”

 

Looking faintly smug, he sat at the kitchen table, watching her as she moved around – filling the teapot from the faucet and setting it on the stove, to heat up the old fashioned way. Same old Granger, then; always falling back into Muggle habits. He supposed he wasn't too surprised.

 

“Is Earl Grey alright?” She couldn't believe she was asking Malfoy what tea he liked. Her entire world had been turned on its head.

 

“That's fine.”

 

They waited in silence for the water to boil, her leaning against the counter with her wand gripped tightly in her hand. Draco seemed to have taken a page from his father and was sitting comfortably at the chair, looking haughty and amused at her defensiveness.

 

Finally, the tea was done and she set a mug in front of him, a faded batman logo on the front. It had been Ron's, she recalled. She'd ended up stealing it from him because she liked how big it was. Ironic that Draco had happened to grab it while rooting around.

 

“Are all your dishes so old?” Draco asked, regarding the mug with distaste. Noticing that she was bristling, he rolled his eyes. “Just a question, Granger.”

 

“I happen to love that cup, and if you don't like it, you can pour your tea out and leave,” she snapped.

 

He sipped from it, regarding her over the rim. “I don't recall you being this easily vexed back at school,” he finally commented. “You were always so aloof with my insults. In fact, the only time you actually did retaliate against me was because I'd made some comment about that idiot caretaker you lot loved.”

 

“Don't you talk about Hagrid that way,” she said, her voice becoming frosty with fury.

 

A hint of a smirk touched Draco's face, and she realized with a start that he liked being able to antagonize her. Still. After all these years.

 

Her expression soured. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

“Us, obviously. The contract. Expectations.” She waited, and his eyes roved her face for a moment before he continued. “My mother would like a summer wedding.”

 

“No,” she denied, instantly. “It's already March. We have a year before we have to marry.”

 

“Why delay the inevitable?” he pointed out, running a slender finger over the rim of the mug. Ugh. She was going to end up having to throw her favorite cup out. She couldn't imagine putting her lips to it ever again after watching him fondle it. “The sooner we spit out two children, the sooner we can move on.”

 

“And what if I don't want to spend the next two years straddled with pregnancies? I have a job, you know. And a life.”

 

“So you'd rather stay married to me until you were thirty-four? Well, I must say, I'm quite flattered,” he murmured, enjoying the storm of anger that flashed across her face. He had to admit, it was funny watching her. Compared to his usual friends, Hermione's expressiveness was more entertaining than he'd thought it would be. Of course, he was likely to grow bored of it soon enough, but for now, it was fun to poke at her.

 

“I don't want to be married to you for even one second,” she reminded him, tightly. “But it's not just the pregnancy, Malfoy. Being a parent is hard work. I won't be able to focus on my career.”

 

“Why are you expecting to have to parent the child?” he asked, eyebrows raising. “My mother would love a grandchild to dote upon. Just leave it at the Manor.”

 

Hermione gasped with shock. “ _No_. I'm not leaving my _child_ at the _Manor_ to be raised by your parents,” she hissed, horror permeating her tone.

 

His expression flickered with that repressed fury again. “Careful, Granger,” he said, softly, eyes flashing with promise. “Those are my parents you're talking about.”

 

“And with all due respect to them, you are a shining example of what I _don't_ want my child to be.”

 

For a moment, they just stared at each other, both furious – Hermione with reddened cheeks and flashing eyes, and Draco with a cold expression, watching her through his eyelashes. Finally, he took another sip of his tea and set the mug down with a sense of finality, standing. “It would seem this conversation has run its course,” he said, leaving Hermione stunned by his abrupt change in demeanor; his tone was light, casual. Polite. “My father's solicitor should owl you the contract by the end of tomorrow.”

 

He took out his wand, and as Hermione reached for hers on reflex, he Disapparated away with a loud crack.

 

She looked at the Batman mug, and pulled a face. After dumping the rest of the tea out, she threw it in the bin with enough force that she heard it crack.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She'd barely slept that night. She'd desperately wanted to Floo Ginny or Harry or hell, even Ron (though she understood why that was a bad idea, with his famous temper) to talk to them about Malfoy being in her home. Her entire flat felt sullied by his presence. What if he'd gone around before she'd shown up, and touched everything?

 

Good Lord, she'd have to throw it all out. Or burn it to cleanse it of evil spirits.

 

At her frantic turn of thoughts, Hermione laughed, and winced at the sound of it; she sounded quite mad. Well, maybe she was.

 

Eventually, all she'd done was cast a few spells to determine that he hadn't left anything sinister behind. When the flat turned up clean of any evil-doing, she'd gone to bed, only to lie there and stare at the ceiling. She'd rewarded the flat tightly, but now she was aware that he could just come in whenever he felt like it. Her own home no longer felt safe.

 

Although it hadn't sounded like he wanted to kill her. Just get her pregnant as quickly as possible so they could end this.

 

Get her pregnant.

 

She felt queasy again at the prospect of them shagging. Malfoy wasn't a bad-looking bloke, but having his features constantly twisted up with disdain made him look grossly unappealing to her. Knowing that whatever time they spent together in the bedroom would likely be mechanical made her want to go into the bathroom and puke up everything she'd eaten for the past ten _years_.

 

The thought of being naked in front of him – vulnerable, and subject to whatever rude, pithy comments he deigned to make – almost made her want to risk the Dementors in Azkaban. Or break her wand and run screaming into the night.

 

Of course, that was the point, wasn't it? They were trying to intimidate and horrify her so that she'd run.

 

She wouldn't run. Not from a bunch of bigoted cowards. She'd die first.

 

The heat and forcefulness of that thought finally chased away the remaining vestiges of her doubts, forcing them into the corners of her mind. Malfoy might have to see her naked, and he might make disparaging remarks, and they might have gross, loveless sex with each other, but if the alternative was fleeing, then she already knew what she was going to have to do.

 

She almost fell asleep with that thought, but then her eyes snapped open as a new one occurred to her. Maybe they wouldn't have to have sex at all.

 

She pulled herself out of bed, excited by the idea, and jotted it down so she wouldn't forget come morning.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The contract was owled to her home by lunch the next day. She'd itched to leave her flat, still feeling uncomfortable there after Malfoy's break-in, but she'd stubbornly refused to be caught running away. As the imperious-looking owl tapped on her window, she sort of wished she'd been a little less stubborn.

 

Opening the window, she stepped back to let the owl swoop in and land on the table, eyeing her sandwich as it dropped the letter.

 

“Hello,” she murmured, reaching for it cautiously. It merely looked at her as she smoothed her hand down its feathered chest, and she smiled when she didn't get a nip. “Are you looking for a treat?” He hooted, spreading his wings a little, and her smile widened. She pulled a piece of ham out of her sandwich and offered it to him, chuckling when he snapped it up.

 

Business concluded, the owl hopped to the edge of the table and flew out the window. She watched it go, mouth going a little dry.

 

Well, no sense in putting off the inevitable. She opened up the letter, unfolding a staggering _sixteen feet_ of parchment.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Ew,” Ginny whispered, narrowing her eyes at the contract. “It's stipulating how often you guys have to shag. Mrs. Malfoy said this was _standard_?”

 

“Personally, I'm a little more worried about the parts dictating where Hermione is to live and how she is to start dressing from now on,” Harry said, jaw clenched. “And how she's to behave. What are they trying to do, mold her into a pureblood wife? What's the point? Everyone already knows the marriage is a sham, it's not like it's going to ruin their reputation that they're following the same law as everyone else.”

 

Hermione's hands clenched around the mug of tea in her hands. “They're trying to scare me off,” she said, eyes flashing. “And it's not going to work. I'm not going to sign that circus of paperwork. And I've a few changes to add of my own.”

 

“You're welcome to use my solicitor,” Harry offered, dropping the end of the parchment to the ground.

 

“Thanks, I think I shall. How soon can he get here? I want to be able to send back the revised contract tonight,” she said. “I don't want them to go to sleep thinking they've won.”

 

“I'll Floo him.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The solicitor, who Harry had mostly hired to make combat the occasional false lawsuit against Harry's person in an attempt to make away with a tiny bit of his inherited riches, was a prim-looking woman with horned glasses by the name of Jerminia Buckthorn. She was a plain-looking woman, but Hermione knew better than to be fooled by her quiet and unassuming demeanor; she was well-regarded as a woman who had never failed a client. Harry had hired her a year after the war, and paid her handsomely to keep him out of nasty legal business, and she did her job impeccably.

 

She looked over the contract, her face betraying nothing as she read all sixteen feet of it. Then, she returned to the top, and began vanishing entire sections with her wand. “This won't do. And none of that,” she murmured, as she worked. “Now, you said you wanted to ensure her safety. I should think that it would be better to bind Narcissa's life to Hermione's if you choose to go the route of the Vow. From what I understand of the family, both Lucius and Draco would be hard-pressed to endanger her.” She spoke in clipped, impersonal tones, her words brusque.

 

Harry frowned. “Do you know them well?”

 

“I was their solicitor for a few years,” she said, as though it meant nothing. “We parted ways after I decided that the sheer amount of illegal activity they seemed intent on accumulating was sure to break my streak.”

 

Hermione blinked, stifling a wry laugh. The woman did love to win, it seemed.

 

“I'd no idea,” Harry said, shooting Hermione a startled look. “Well, I'm glad I hired you, then. Who better than you to take this on?”

 

Jerminia smiled, and the nature of that smile made Hermione wonder if she hadn't been a Slytherin once. “Precisely.”

 

The solicitor's changes included removing anything dictating how Hermione was to live her life after the marriage – including where she was to live it, in what clothes she was to live it, and in what manner she was to live it – as well as any stipulations on copulation. She added a clause demanding an Unbreakable Vow from Narcissa that Hermione would not be harmed by any person or artifact of Dark Magic. She also added a clause that neither Hermione nor any of her children would ever be required to step foot in Malfoy Manor, and that in the event of her death, her parents would become their legal guardian. If David and Rose somehow perished, Harry Potter would be their next legal guardian, and that if something happened to him, each of the Weasleys in turn would find themselves the legal guardian.

 

All in all, the Malfoys would have to kill quite a few people to get their grandchildren. That made Hermione feel a little better.

 

A few more minor changes added that none of the Malfoys would enter her flat without her permission, that Hermione would maintain sole custody of any children after the divorce, and basically a bunch of other little things that ensured Hermione would be well-protected (at least, legally) from any of their manipulations.

 

She and Harry and Jerminia spent hours poring over the contract, making little changes to tighten it up here and there, before she finally owled it back at nine o'clock in the evening.

 

Feeling satisfied, she Flooed home, triple-checked her wards, and crawled into bed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

A loud _crack_ tore her from sleep, and she jumped about a mile in the air as her fingers instinctively sought the wand beneath her pillow. A dark figure loomed over her bed, and she turned her wand on him, screaming, “ _Stup--_ ”

 

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Her wand flew from her grip and the man caught it. His blonde hair shone in the faint moonlight from her window, but his face was hidden in shadow.

 

“Malfoy--” she gasped, scrambling to flee the bed. She rolled out and ran for the door, which slammed in her face. She slapped her palms against it and turned, looking for anything she could weaponize. She grabbed her lamp, lofting it threateningly, and it flew out of her hand and crashed into the far wall with a flick of his wand.

 

“ _Lumos_ ,” he muttered, and she flinched a bit at the sudden light.

 

He stared at her, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, and Hermione realized with a gulp that he was angry. Very angry. Then his eyes flicked down her body, taking in the camisole and boy-shorts she usually slept in, and she gasped again and darted for the bed, grabbing a pillow to hold in front of herself and her bare thighs. “What in Merlin's name are you doing here in the middle of the night?” she finally demanded, when it seemed he wasn't going to outright attack her.

 

“This...” He held up the revised contract. “Is a farce.”

 

Her face heated, though she wasn't sure if that was more due to anger or more due to her state of undress. She was leaning towards the former. “Oh, _that's_ a farce? Not the one you guys sent to me, demanding I sit quietly in your home in full dress robes at all hours of the day until you came to shag me for your dutiful two times a week?”

 

He stalked towards her, and she flattened herself against the door. “I expected you to want to take that out. I didn't expect that you'd want to bind my mother to you as a human shield or ensure that I'd never be able to see any children I helped make,” he said, his voice cold. “You're not too bright, Granger, if you thought I was going to sign that.” He stopped in front of her, wand pointed at her, and she hugged her pillow tightly to herself. He glanced at her shoulder, and then moved the wand down to tug at the strap of the camisole, feeling vindicated when her face went bright red.

 

“Can we talk about this out in the living room, after I've dressed?” she asked, tightly.

 

“No.” The terseness of his reply made her wince. “I've grown somewhat impatient, you see, and I'm more than a little annoyed. It's not my fault you sleep like a cheap whore.”

 

She gaped at him. “How _dare_ \--”

 

“Would you prefer to talk to me here,” he cut in, eyes hard. “Or would you like me to side-along Apparate you to the Manor so we could discuss this with my parents and our solicitor?”

 

She glared at him, her breath coming in short pants. Of course she didn't want to show up in the Manor like this, which of course he knew very well. She would have welcomed a formal meeting with all of them and all of her side, though. “We can meet tomorrow with my solic--”

 

“No, I want this decided tonight.”

 

“Malfoy, you can't--” He ripped the pillow away from her, and she shrieked. It had been a poor shield, but it had been _something_. She wrapped her arms across her chest, mindful that she wasn't wearing a bra and feeling strangely exposed for it. “ _Malfoy_.”

 

He took an extra half-step towards her, close enough that she could feel his body heat through the thin layer of her camisole. His wand rose, tapping the bottom of her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His face was cold, as though chiseled from stone. She was horrified to realize that her eyes were growing a bit teary, especially when he saw it and didn't seem to soften even remotely. In fact, she thought she saw a flash of victory in his eyes.

 

In that moment, she _hated_ him. And she thought he saw that hate, too, and in response he only smirked slightly.

 

“We'll be getting rid of that Vow,” he informed her. “I won't have my mother dying because you did something stupid with your friends that got you killed, like you were always so eager to do back in school. If you're that _frightened_ ,” he said, smirk widening at her heated glare. “We can work something out. And we're tossing every last paragraph that has anything to do with keeping me and my family away from _my_ children. When we divorce, we'll be sharing custody.”

 

“Over my dead body,” she spat.

 

“You realize that can be arranged?” He looked down his nose at her, taking his time and letting his gaze trace over the arms covering her chest, and her bare shoulders. Then further, glancing over the inch of exposed skin on her belly, her underwear, and her completely bared legs.

 

She pressed her knees together, grinding her teeth. “May I have my wand back, please?”

 

“Do we have an agreement?”

 

“No,” she snapped. “I'm not agreeing to anything you say while I'm in this state. You broke into my home, _again_ , and now you're trying to intimidate me while I'm half-naked. You're a loathsome little _roach_ , Malfoy, and I'm not going to let you browbeat me.”

 

His eyes flashed again, and the wand tip under her chin dug in a little, forcing her head back. He shifted forward again, the skin of his chest pressing against her elbows, and she cringed back against the door. “Stop acting like I want this any more than you do,” he said, slow and deliberate. “Do you think I wanted to let a filthy little Mudblood Know-It-all into my life? I was very much looking forward to never having to see you again.” His voice lowered. “Let's just make this as painless as it can be, Granger. I'm not trying to kill you. I'm just trying to get through this mess to the other side. We're victims of this _together._ We don't have to be enemies about this.”

 

She swallowed, hard, the tip of the wand pressing into her throat shifting a bit with the movement. Blinking up at him, she detected a hint of sincerity in his voice that she couldn't remember ever having heard before. “Victims together?” she murmured, letting the notion roll around in her mind. Of course Malfoy didn't want this, and she knew from what Harry told her of sixth year that he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer.

 

His father was a different story, of course.

 

At her words, he inclined his head, lowering his wand from her throat. She relaxed infinitesimally, noticing that he didn't step back. “I know we don't like each other, but we can work together on this,” he said, softly. “I don't care if you live in the Manor, or what you wear, or how often we-- well. You know. But I want access to my children. They'll be mine, too, you know.”

 

She looked wary, but hesitant to argue. After all, he wasn't wrong – they would also be his children, and it was wrong to try and keep them from him. “I would have let you visit them,” she defended, and winced when he glared at her. In a soft voice, she agreed, “Alright, let's work together, then.” It couldn't be worse than fighting for the next ten years, right? Besides, when it came to dealing with his parents, she'd need an ally. She'd never admit it, but Lucius and Narcissa scared the utter crap out of her.

 

He stepped back. She flinched again when he raised his hand, but softened when she realized it didn't have a wand in it. “Victims together?” he asked, and there was almost a wry amusement in his tone that made her do a double-take at his face.

 

Blinking up at him, she put her hand in his, shaking it. “Victims together.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...


	4. Victims Together

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Four: “Victims Together”**

 

…

 

He'd left soon after, with the promise that they'd meet the following day. She'd agreed to remove the Vow, so long as he provided a decent enough replacement for it, and she'd also agreed that it was unfair to try and wrest any children they had together away from him. They'd have to discuss that more thoroughly when they met.

 

“Are you sure you don't want us to come with you?” Ron asked. They'd all been furious when she told them Malfoy had broken into her home – twice. Now that he'd calmed down, Ron seemed reluctant to let her face the git alone.

 

She was reluctant to do so, herself, if she was being honest. Knowing that he'd seen so much of her bare skin made that exposed feeling linger well into the next day.

 

Shaking her head, Hermione said, “No. We promised we'd meet alone.”

 

“What if he tries to convince you to do something you shouldn't?” Harry pointed out.

 

“I'm not an idiot.”

 

“I'm not saying you are,” Harry said, quickly, raising his hands in pre-emptive surrender. “But what I am saying is that you're kind, have a very strong sense of justice, and you're unlikely to want to outright hurt another person. Malfoy's a Slytherin. Manipulating people is his bread and butter.”

 

She stared at him, feeling strangely betrayed. “You must think very poorly of me if you think I can fall for his little games.”

 

“They're not little games to _him_. Listen, Hermione, you're the smartest witch I've ever known or even heard of. There isn't a thing in this world you can't learn or don't already know.” His hand landed on her arm, squeezing a bit, entreating her to pay attention. “But you're also a good person, and that's going to make it easy for him to twist your head around. You don't have his complete lack of scruples.”

 

She inhaled shakily, but shook her head again. “We promised,” she repeated. “Look, I won't agree to anything or sign anything. You'll still be able to look the contract over. But it's not like he wants to be in this situation any more than I do.”

 

“That's what makes him so dangerous, Hermione!” Harry snapped, growing exasperated. “He might be willing to do something crazy to get out of it, like make you disappear!”

 

“Then what? He'd just be stuck with another Muggle-born he'd have to get rid of,” Hermione said, crossly. “You think he'd just murder a string of Muggle-borns to avoid this? He doesn't have a _choice_ , Harry. This law is going to be in place for the next decade. He can't get out of it.”

 

Ron was shaking his head. “I still don't like it. He's up to something. He's not the sort of person to just agree to meet you for a coffee to chat things over. He hates you, Hermione.”

 

“That may be so,” she agreed. “And I hate him, too. But I'm the future mother of his child, so maybe he has no choice but to play nice for now. At least until I can sign a version of the contract he wants.”

 

“I've got a bad feeling about this,” Harry grumbled, running his hands through his already-messy hair.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They were meeting at a cafe in Diagon Alley, considering it “Neutral Territory.” She was wearing jeans and a jumper, which she didn't think was out of place in a cafe, but as soon as Draco entered and saw her, he rolled his eyes and sighed.

 

“Are you wearing that just to bother me?” he accused, raising an eyebrow.

 

She stared at him in confusion, and looked down at herself. “What? No. What's wrong with it?” she demanded, feeling strangely self-conscious.

 

He shook his head, sitting down opposite her.

 

“Why, because it's Muggle clothing?” she persisted, narrowing her eyes at him.

 

“There's such a thing as respectable Muggle clothing, not that I'd expect you to know what it looks like or have it in your wardrobe,” Draco drawled, picking up the table placard to figure out what he was going to order. Hermione seethed; so much for Ron and Harry's assumption that Draco was being civil to manipulate her. “You look like you just stumbled in off a street corner.”

 

She ground her teeth. When she spoke, it was low, and furious. “Are you calling me a vagrant or a prostitute?”

 

He considered her. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

 

She stood abruptly, stomping past him, but his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She turned to glare at him, her heated gaze meeting his icy, commanding stare.

 

“Do not. Make. A scene,” he warned her, in a low tone. “Sit down.”

 

“Don't tell me what to do,” she hissed.

 

“Sit down, or I'll be forced to stare at your arse while you walk away, since you've gone through the trouble of wearing clothing that defines it so clearly,” he said, a faint sneer touching his face as he spoke. His eyes flicked down to it pointedly.

 

She went bright red, and hastened to sit, mortified and angry and _confused_. “They're not that tight,” she defended, although by pureblooded wizarding standards, she had to admit they were. Pureblooded witches didn't wear _pants_.

 

He issued a delicate snort, perusing the menu again. “And Muggles wear such things all the time? It's no wonder sexual crimes are so rampant there.”

 

She bristled fantastically. “Are you honestly suggesting that it's a woman's fault that she might get molested or _worse_ because she happened to wear a certain piece of clothing?” she demanded, her voice raising a bit. “And the man, I suppose, is perfectly innocent of any wrongdoing in that scenario. He just 'couldn't help himself'?”

 

“Well, I imagine a Muggle man couldn't,” he said, with the faintest shrug. “A wizard, of course, can control himself, but Muggles are only a half-step up from animals, you know.”

 

She stared at him, shocked into silence for a blissful three seconds. “No, I _don't_ know,” she said, her voice growing shrill.

 

He smirked. “You've really become too easy, Granger. Tell me, is it because of this whole marriage thing, or has your already-precarious self-esteem just taken blow after blow through all these years?”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. Was he saying he was just trying to rile her up, or did he really believe all that nonsense he'd been spouting? “Look, did you want to talk, or not?” Folding her arms, she glared at him.

 

The waitress approached, and Draco told her, “Two coffees. Cream. She'll have a croissant.”

 

She waited until the waitress was gone before snapping, “You don't know what I want.”

 

“You ate a croissant every morning for seven years,” he replied, easily, and his smirk widened when he saw that he'd stunned her. “What, you're telling me you never noticed what I ate for breakfast?”

 

“Porridge with way too much brown sugar,” she admitted, begrudgingly.

 

“Way too-- it was not too much,” he defended.

 

“It was more sugar than porridge.”

 

The smirk widened, softening at the edges a bit, into something that almost resembled a real smile. Hermione realized, with a start, that the sharp exhalation she'd just witnessed was actually a _laugh_.

 

“Well, I think I've made my point,” he murmured. “You can't be with the same group of people for seven years and not pick up a few things. Potty likes waffles with strawberries, the Weasel will inhale just about anything but he _really_ stuffs his face if there's that sage sausage about. I think we know each other better than we assume.”

 

“I doubt that very much.”

 

“Give it time,” he said, confidently. “Now, the Vow. I won't have my mother involved in this, and truth be told, she's a little hurt at being targeted.”

 

“I doubt that, too.” She couldn't imagine anything she did as being hurtful to Narcissa Malfoy.

 

“Doubt what you like. My mother has graciously decided to bestow her wedding ring upon you for your purposes,” he said, looking at her closely. She better realize what a huge deal that was.

 

Hermione frowned. “Why?”

 

He rolled his eyes a bit. “The ring grants the wearer protection from her husband and his family. It's an old enchantment from the days when killing your spouse was fairly rampant. It will grant you protection not only from myself and my extended family, but from people acting on our behalf – whether we know about them acting on our behalf or not. It's a powerful enchantment. You can have it investigated by a Ministry official of your choosing, as I know you're about to demand.”

 

Her mouth snapped shut, and he smirked, continuing on.

 

“Unfortunately, it has a nasty side effect; if either you or I, wearing the companion ring – keeping in mind that the rings can only be taken off by our partners – engage in physical intimacy of a sexual nature with anyone else, we'll experience intense pain and possibly disfigurement.”

 

“Disfigurement,” she repeated, dumbly.

 

He shrugged. “So I've heard. I've never seen that happen. Most of my predecessors declined to risk it.”

 

No kidding.

 

She narrowed her eyes at him, considering it. “Any other side effects?”

 

“Not that I'm aware of,” he said, smoothly. “In any case, my mother doesn't feel the need for such protections anymore, although she is quite attached to the ring, being that it's been on her finger for several years. It's a generous gift from her.”

 

She exhaled slowly, taking a moment to think. It was hard to do that with him staring at her, his eyes boring into her face. His gaze felt like acid on her skin.

 

Finally, she said, “If the Ministry official inspects it and it is all that you claim and no more _and no less_ , I will consider that an acceptable replacement for the Vow.” His lips quirked in a slightly wider smirk, and she wondered if maybe she'd been wrong not to bring at least Harry along.

 

No. She was the brightest witch of her generation. She could handle herself.

 

“Excellent.” He pulled a box out of his pocket, offering it to her.

 

When she hesitated, he quirked an eyebrow. She took it as the coffees arrived, dimly aware that Malfoy was taking it upon himself to put two sugars into hers. Presumptuous git. Pushing away the flash of annoyance, she inspected the rings.

 

They were silver, and looked old, though clean. The male ring was a thick band studded with tiny emeralds, the inside flashing with the runes of the enchantment. The female ring had the same runes inside, but was a thinner band with one large emerald flanked by two diamonds. Hermione closed the box, grumbling. “Of course they're green.”

 

There it was again; the flash of that elusive Real Smile. “Well, Granger, what did you expect?”

 

She pushed the box into her pocket, thanking the waitress when she arrived with her croissant. Taking a sip of her coffee – he'd not added cream, he really _had_ watched her eat at school – she picked it up and tore off the curled end. Eating in front of him felt awkward, especially when he wasn't eating himself.

 

“Now,” he said, when she'd popped the bit of croissant in her mouth. “The matter of custody.” He watched her chew for a moment, and then said, “I've given it a lot of thought. I understand your wariness of my parents and our home. I won't contest your ridiculously long list of guardians for our children in the event of your death--”

 

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

 

“Provided,” he continued. “I'm the first on the list. If I die, they go to your parents, then Potty, then the Weasel, whatever you want.”

 

She chewed slowly, buying time.

 

“Also, I want joint custody of the children in the very likely event that neither of us die any time soon. They can stay with you, if you want, but I visit them whenever I please, and take them on outings up to two days at a time up to ten times per year – and up to two weeks at a time at least twice a year.”

 

“Not during Christmas,” she said.

 

“I get Christmas Eve,” he countered. “And I can visit whenever I want. That means in your flat, Granger. No more warding me out.”

 

She pulled some more of her croissant apart. “I want something to guarantee my protection after divorce, as well, then.”

 

He sighed, eyes rolling heavenwards. “You're truly paranoid, you know that?”

 

“Do you blame me?” she challenged.

 

“Then upon our divorce, I'll make the Vow,” he said. “If anything happens to you because of me, my family, or someone acting on my behalf, I'll die. Then, if you die, the sprogs won't go anywhere near my family for the next forever. Does that make you happy?” he added, bitterly.

 

“That'll be fine,” she agreed, coolly.

 

He took another sip of his coffee, gaze dropping to her fingers. “Are you going to just tear that to shreds, or are you going to eat it?”

 

She blinked down at her hands, the remains of the croissant still dangling from her fingers. Embarrassed, she wiped her hands on her napkin and popped another piece in her mouth, taking a swallow of coffee along with it. “Anything else you want to change?”

 

“If I'm not allowed to shag anyone else, can we put back that stipulation about how often we do it?” He smirked contentedly as she choked on her coffee, turning bright red and spluttering indignantly. “Come on, Granger, have some pity.”

 

She glared at him as she coughed, and finally managed to wheeze out. “You can wank like the rest of the world, Malfoy.”

 

“You're heartless,” he accused, but his tone was light, and his eyes were dancing with laughter.

 

She realized he was _teasing_ her. This was a real day of firsts.

 

Hesitantly, she tried to match his tone. “I thought you appreciated heartlessness,” she said, glibly, watching his reaction closely.

 

His smirk widened, becoming an Almost Smile. “Oh, I do.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She Flooed to Ginny's, since she'd taken the time off work necessary to finangle the stupid contract. She was barely there a second before the redhead all but attacked her, pulling her down onto a dining room chair and demanding every last detail of her “date.”

 

“It wasn't a date, Ginny,” Hermione protested, disgusted. “If anything, it was a business meeting.”

 

“Oh, so it was at a conference table, then, and not a coffee shop?” Ginny asked, innocently, batting her eyelashes at Hermione as she cupped her chin in her hands.

 

Hermione made a face at her. “Don't be a prat. And nothing special happened, we just talked about the contract.”

 

“You didn't agree to anything, did you?”

 

“I made some concessions, as did he,” Hermione said, slowly. “And I need to find someone to inspect this ring's enchantment for me. Malfoy wants to use these in place of a Vow. He said it would keep me from coming to any harm as a result of them, basically.”

 

Ginny took the box, inspecting the contents. “Green,” she commented, her nose wrinkling.

 

“I know,” she sighed. She took the box back. “Maybe I can ask Bill to look at them.”

 

Ginny nodded. “That's a good idea. He's good with enchantments and curses, one of the best there is, if I'm being honest. Though don't you tell him I told you that.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She met with Bill after demanding to see him – yes, during work hours, because it was so urgent – and after hastily explaining the situation, he finally agreed to take a look at the rings on his lunch hour. When she brought them to him, they settled in his office, the ring box between them.

 

He waved his wand over the rings, and watched closely as a fine silver mist seemed to rise out of them. They swirled, flashing green and purple. He did this a few more times, peering closely at the mist.

 

“Sorry, it doesn't usually take so many viewings, but this is a very odd little enchantment, I guess because it's so old,” he said.

 

“So... was Malfoy lying?”

 

“No, it does seem to be primarily enchanted to ensure the wife's continued health and to prevent adultery,” he said. “But there's more in here. Subtle stuff, though.”

 

She fidgeted uncomfortably. “Like what?”

 

“It seems to tune the wearers in to their spouse's emotions, I suppose to promote better understanding of each other.”

 

She inhaled sharply, and groaned a bit. “I don't want to _understand_ Malfoy.”

 

Bill let the mist fade away. “All things considered, I don't think it'd be a bad thing. It might make him less inclined to be such an utter arsehole to you. There's also a binding component in the enchantment ensuring that only he can take your ring off and vice versa.”

 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, he did tell me about that part. I forgot to mention it.”

 

“I didn't see anything insidious or particularly dark in there,” Bill said. “Just the usual charms meant to promote a happy union. Emotional connectivity, a stopper that will keep you guys from firing off angry spells at each other when you're fighting, and...” He stopped, huffing a soft laugh. “Well, you may not want to hear about the other thing.”

 

“What?” she asked, filled with dread.

 

“It's a sex thing,” he said, laughing louder at the look on her face. “Nothing too sordid, but it looks like you'd be charmed to better, uh, better receive his _seed_ , as it were.”

 

She made a horrified, disgusted noise, reeling back into her chair. “Oh, ugh, that's-- oh, God.”

 

He bit back another round of laughter, reminding her of George in that moment.

 

“Oh, shut it,” she grumbled, and his laughter quickly filled the office. “And don't you dare tell George about this.”

 

“Hermione, I am the very _essence_ of propriety and secrecy,” he swore.

 

She didn't believe him.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Hermione, I heard your weddings rings are going to knock you right up,” George said, when she went into his shop to find Ron.

 

Hermione stared at him. “I just left Gringott's fifteen minutes ago!” she exclaimed.

 

He waggled his eyebrows at her. “News travels fast in these circles. So, when can I start visiting my little niece or nephew with their disorderly blonde curls?”

 

That _Bill_. She was going to kill him. “I'm not discussing this with you,” she sniffed. “Where's Ron at?”

 

“Upstairs, sulking. He got his own summons to the clerk's office. He has to go tomorrow and meet his future wife,” George said, chuckling. “Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as birthing a new generation of Malfoys unto the world.”

 

She glared at him. “Your support means the world to me,” she growled, sarcasm dripping from every word.

 

He wagged a finger at her. “There's a lot of witches who'd kill to be in your shoes. I mean, they're all bloody stupid, but still.”

 

She grumbled some more, shoving past him to head upstairs to the office.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She felt no better after speaking with Ron, mostly because she'd had to spend the entire time consoling him over his mystery future wife, who he was _sure_ was someone awful or ugly or brainless.

 

“They have it out for me. They've always had it out for me. The whole bleeding Ministry,” he moaned from the couch beside the desk.

 

“Don't be silly. Besides, it could be worse. Parkinson's a pureblood. She's already out of the running. Lucky you.”

 

He groaned. “ _That's_ how you choose to reassure me? By pointing out I could be with Pug-Face Parkinson? That's hardly a comfort at all. Anyone's better than her!” He flopped back against the couch, writhing on it in misery.

 

“Ron, it won't be that bad,” she insisted, moving over to sit on the edge of the couch, by his legs. He lifted them obligingly, lowering them back onto her lap as soon as she settled in. She rubbed his shins a bit, realizing sadly that she knew these legs _very_ well from the last four years. She had every scrap of him memorized in her fingertips.

 

Now someone else would get the opportunity to do that.

 

“I just... I didn't want things to end up like this,” he said, softly. “Married against my will to some stranger.”

 

“None of us did.”

 

They just sat like that for a while, her rubbing his shin absently as he stared up at the ceiling, contemplating his future.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She brought her parents, Harry, and Jerminia to the contract signing. The final contract had been drafted between Jerminia and the Malfoys' solicitor. Jerminia seemed to take great pleasure in diverting and destroying any additions the Malfoys tried to put into the contract, and they regarded her with a certain sort of iciness that only made her more _delighted_ to be of service to Hermione.

 

Finally, though, both parties got the contract to where they wanted it, and Hermione was surprised to realize that it was more or less where she and Draco had agreed. She wouldn't be forced to live at the Manor, nor make any lifestyle adjustments. Draco had been added as the first legal guardian in Hermione's death, and his visitation rights after their divorce were exactly as he'd demanded. Upon their divorce, he would take the Vow promising Hermione's safety from him and his ilk.

 

They would wear the rings instead of subjecting Narcissa to the Vow. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa seemed very happy to give those rings to their son and his Mudblood wife, which seemed to firm Harry's resolution that it was a good enough substitute.

 

On that third day after the fateful announcement of their impending engagement, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy signed the contract, binding them to faithful service to the Ministry in the grand art of babymaking.

 

Hermione stared at her signature with discontent. She felt wasted and tired, and wanted nothing more than to curl up on her couch with a book, some tea, and Crookshanks purring at her feet.

 

Draco touched her arm, earning a startled little jump. Somberly, he held out his ring to her. “You'll have to put it on,” he explained.

 

She swallowed, taking his hand with shaking fingers, and slipped it onto his ring finger. She was surprised by how warm his hands were, and realized that even when he'd been intimidating her while she was half-naked and half-asleep in her room, he'd studiously avoided touching her over the past few days.

 

He took her hand in his, and slipped her ring onto her finger. The ring felt unnaturally warm, like it was alive. It seemed to shrink to the size of her finger, fitting snugly but loose enough to slide off. But she knew it wouldn't be going anywhere until Draco took it off of her, years from now.

 

Suppressing a shiver, she looked up into the stormy grey eyes of her future husband, and said, “Bugger.”

 


	5. The Game is Afoot

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Five: The Game Is Afoot**

 

…

 

After getting the third owl of that week from Narcissa trying to wheedle her into a lovely August or perhaps early September ceremony, to which she _also_ did not reply, she finally got one from Lucius. It was short, and to the point.

 

_Miss Granger,_

 

_Reply to my wife's letters._

 

_My regards,_

_Lucius Malfoy_

 

Hermione pulled a face at the parchment, and at his owl by proxy, who was examining her fingers, looking for another little snippet of ham. What was the owl's name? Adroxys. That's right. “Adroxys, are you hungry?” she sighed, and he made a cooing noise, nibbling on her fingers in a friendly way.

 

Narcissa's owl, on the other hand, was far from friendly. She'd fed it a biscuit, and the dumb owl had taken it in her beak and brazenly dropped it on the floor, sending crumbs everywhere.

 

Hermione had decided she hated that one. What was her name? Prissy. A fitting name for a rude owl.

 

She fetched a slice of ham for Adroxys, who snapped it up eagerly, preening a bit on her table. Clearly he was here to stay until she penned a letter to the persistent Mrs. Malfoy. Sighing, she grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill.

 

_Mrs. Malfoy,_

 

_As I informed you during the contract signing, I would prefer not to rush to the ceremony. We have until next March to do the wedding, and I don't mind doing it inside._

 

After a moment, she wrinkled her nose and added:

 

_Thank you very much for thinking of me._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

 

She folded it up and passed it to Adroxys, who hooted and took flight, dipping out her kitchen window. Sighing a bit, she returned to the work she'd brought home for the weekend, trying to put a dent in the projects she'd put on hold during her fiasco of an engagement.

 

Only five minutes passed before Prissy was fluttering in, looking indignant.

 

Hermione scowled at the sight of the owl. Did Narcissa have no _life_? Was she just sitting in the Manor, waiting eagerly for correspondence to arrive?

 

She managed to get the letter while avoiding Prissy's beak, and shooed the owl to the far side of the table irritably. She wasn't going to make the mistake of trying to give this one a treat again. Glaring at Prissy, Hermione unfolded the letter and glanced it over.

 

_Hermione,_

 

_I must insist upon a chance to change your mind. It's a lovely weekend. Would you and your parents be interested in coming to the Manor for tea? I could show you the grounds and you can see for yourself how lovely they'd be in the late summer. There's a large gazebo by the lake that I am sure you would be interested in._

 

She snorted. Not bloody likely. It didn't matter how beautiful the wedding was; she hated the groom!

 

_Please consider coming for tea tomorrow at 4 o'clock sharp. It would be a welcome chance to greet your parents properly and get to know each other._

 

_Eagerly awaiting your agreement,_

_Narcissa_

 

Apparently they were on a first-name basis, now. Hermione tried to ease the discomfort that settled in her stomach at the thought.

 

After grabbing her mobile and giving her parents a quick call, she penned a short reply, hoping the terseness would put Narcissa off on sending anything back.

 

_Mrs. Malfoy,_

 

_Fine. We will be there at 4._

 

_Regards,_

_Hermione_

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They'd opened up the Floo from the Manor to her flat, a connection she wished didn't exist. Still, it was better than Apparating outside the gates and walking up that two-kilometer drive.

 

Her parents were suitably speechless when they stumbled into the ballroom of the Manor; a move she assumed was calculated by Narcissa, who was standing nearby looking as resplendent as usual. There were fifty fireplaces in the building, Hermione thought, sourly, but of course she'd bring her parents through the _one_ that would make them look like a bunch of gawking, ungainly Muggles.

 

“My goodness,” Rose whispered. “This is exquisite. This is your home?”

 

“Yes, it is, and I welcome you to it,” Narcissa said, warmly, and clasped Rose's arms to lean forward and press a soft kiss to each cheek – in the classic French way. She extended her hand to David, and to her credit, didn't do more than blink when he dumbly shook it rather than kissing her knuckles. Instead, she turned to Hermione with a bright smile that made her look radiant, and made Hermione feel like a dowdy cow in comparison. She drew Hermione in for a hug, which the girl accepted, if somewhat rigidly. “My dear girl, I'm so excited to have you here. We'll be taking our tea in the garden. Lucius and Draco are already there.”

 

Great. Hermione stifled a sigh. This had seemed more doable when it was her and her parents against just Narcissa. And she didn't trust Lucius to not be a pompous arse to her parents.

 

Either oblivious to her misgivings or ignoring them, Narcissa tucked her arm through Hermione's, leading the way.

 

Hermione hated how her parents openly stared in awe at everything they passed. The exquisite carpets, the complicated tapestries, the moving portraits (apparently either persuaded to be polite or charmed to be silent, thank Merlin), the old statues and vases and all the other expensive nonsense that decorated the Malfoy home. She'd never really let on just how rich Malfoy was to her parents, although she'd said that he was wealthy. But now they had an alarmingly good idea of just _how_ wealthy.

 

Narcissa kept up a stream of polite chatter as she led them to through the French doors to the garden, while Hermione bitterly counted all the fireplaces that were _much, much closer_ to the garden than the ballroom one.

 

Outside, the garden was perfect, overflowing with flowers even in the middle of March. It was a sunny day, although it should have been freezing, still. Hermione assumed it was some sort of warming charm that kept the place bearable. She examined the stone walkway, glancing at the statues of nymphs and ancestral Malfoys that dotted the garden on the way to an ornate glass table.

 

Both of the male Malfoys stood politely as they approached, pulling out the three chairs. Draco gestured for Hermione to take his, and Lucius took Rose's hand, leading her to his.

 

As she sat, she saw that her mother was _perfectly_ enchanted with the house and its inhabitants, and her stomach curdled like sour milk. Her father, at least, looked a little more guarded, clearly remembering everything he'd heard about these people. But he had the manners, at least, to hold Narcissa's chair for her and help her into her seat. Narcissa flashed him that dazzling smile of hers, obviously pleasantly surprised that he had any manners at all.

 

Draco seated himself beside her, eyes lingering on the Malfoy ring adorning Hermione's finger.

 

“We cannot express how delighted we are to have you in our home,” Lucius said, and Hermione's expression pinched as she fought the urge to shout at him for being such a thrice-damned _liar_. “Narcissa has been quite eager to make your acquaintance properly after the tensions surrounding our meeting. Arranged marriages are always a little... strained, at first.”

 

“Well, I admit it did take some getting used to,” Rose said. “I can't imagine that such a barbaric law was actually able to get passed.”

 

“We didn't think so, either,” Narcissa admitted. “But I suppose that is what the times call for.”

 

“Why?” David settled his napkin in his lap, and startled as an elf appeared with a _pop_ , hoisting a tray of tea sandwiches. Others followed suit, and he stared at them, blinking. Hermione had told him about house elves, but he'd never seen one, before. Clearing his throat and trying to rally his thoughts, he turned back to Narcissa. “If it's so important to marry outside of... your usual circles, then wouldn't you do that without being forced to?”

 

Narcissa laughed, soft and tinkling. “Unfortunately, no. There are many things that pureblooded families would not be able to let go of to allow that to happen, the foremost of those being pride.”

 

Stunned by her blunt honesty, Hermione found herself examining the Malfoy matriarch anew.

 

“Two sugars, isn't it?” Draco murmured, drawing her attention. He needn't have asked, since he'd already _put_ the sugar in and was stirring her tea for her. “No cream,” he added, with a small smirk.

 

“That's right,” she admitted, voice strangled. What was he up to?

 

As it turned out, over the next hour of tea, she needn't have worried about Lucius or anyone else being a pompous git. The worst Lucius did was blink in polite silence when he thought David or Rose asked a stupid or mannerless question. The Malfoy family was a picture-perfect one, charming and beautiful, and by the end of the hour, the only one not laughing or having any fun was Hermione.

 

She sourly glared around the table, trying to figure out what angle the Malfoys were going for. They weren't _nice_.

 

This was bizarre.

 

After they'd nibbled and drank their tea, Narcissa insisted on taking a walk to the gazebo she'd mentioned to Hermione, effusively talking about how beautiful and elegant it was, and how she'd been married there.

 

“Once you see it, Hermione, you'll realize you must perform the ceremony there. The place has a very old magic to it,” she said, casting Hermione a sly look that the girl returned suspiciously. “It's like a romantic fantasy come to life, you see.”

 

And, once she saw it, she had to admit Narcissa was right.

 

The gazebo seemed to have been born from the trees and foliage around it, vines of flowers crawling up the swirling branches that formed the intricate posts and ceiling. When she stepped inside, her breath caught when she realized fairy lights danced in the dark, domed wooden ceiling, looking like the night sky.

  
Realizing Narcissa was watching her, she admitted, begrudging: “It is beautiful.”

 

Narcissa's smile widened in triumph. “I knew you would like it. Of course, if we're to use it, a summer wedding simply is a must,” she said, turning beseeching eyes to Hermione's own parents. “The wedding is a foregone conclusion, after all. Why have a drafty, freezing winter wedding if it can be avoided?”

 

“I suppose that's a fair point,” Rose conceded.

 

Hermione glared at her, stunned. _Traitor!_ Rose caught her look and winced guiltily, shrugging a bit in self-defense.

 

A hand settled gingerly on her back, startling her. She looked to her side, frowning, realizing it was Draco, of all people. He was looking out over the lake, and he jerked his chin ever-so-slightly across it, gesturing for her to follow his gaze.

 

She did, and all speech left her. Beside her, she heard her mother gasp.

 

A unicorn picked its way along the farthest edge of the lake, nosing along the ground. Hermione watched it, enraptured.

 

Rose whispered, “Is that what I think it is?”

 

The unicorn raised its head, looking straight at them, and disappeared into the woods.

 

Narcissa smiled softly. “Yes. It lives on the grounds. Beautiful, isn't it?”

 

Even David Granger nodded dumbly.

 

There was a small smile on Draco's face as he watched the unicorn's tail disappear, and when he turned to Hermione, it remained there. Shocked, Hermione stared at him, and his smile widened a bit as he leaned in, whispering in her ear: “Don't worry, we've never bled it for nefarious purposes.” At her stunned look, he laughed softly, his hand pressing into her back and waist for a moment before it was gone. Then he was stepping away to join his father, striking up a conversation about the family business.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I must admit,” Rose said, once they'd Flooed back home. “They're not at all like I imagined. They actually seemed quite lovely.”

 

David nodded. “They were polite,” he murmured, seeming confused.

 

Hermione just stared at them, frowning. Maybe that had been the plan all along; kill them all with kindness. After all, now when Hermione protested against every little thing, her parents might think that she was just being contrary. “Don't you _dare_ get charmed by them!” she demanded, hands tightening into fists. “So they were polite for a single afternoon. That's not how they usually are.”

 

Rose looked apologetic. “Well, you can't really blame us, honey, can you? We don't know them as well as you. Perhaps they've changed over the last seven years. Stranger things have happened.”

 

“I can't believe I'm hearing this,” Hermione gasped, outraged.

 

David sighed. “You have to admit that it's a possibility, Hermione, however remote it may be. Seven years is a long time.”

 

“Dad, not you,” Hermione pleaded. “Tell me you saw through that.” If even her Dad was fooled, she didn't know what she was going to do.

 

He licked his lips, and shrugged a bit. “Whatever you said about him before, the young man seemed deferential and polite to you and to us. And so did his parents. Maybe they were lying or acting, but we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?”

 

Huffing indignantly, Hermione Apparated home without so much as a goodbye.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Harry frowned as Hermione ranted and raved about tea at the Malfoys. More specifically, about her parents' reaction to it.

 

“Don't be too upset, Hermione. You didn't talk to them about Malfoy when you were in school, so they have no reason to believe he's a prat when he's not acting like it,” he pointed out, although his voice was quiet and thoughtful.

 

Ginny bounced Albus on her knee, making the toddler giggle in delight. “Maybe they're actually trying,” she suggested, with a shrug. “I mean, if they are, that's good, right? At least you don't have to worry about them being awful to you for the next ten years.”

  
“I don't believe that for a second,” Hermione said, scowling.

 

Ginny raised her eyebrows at her. “Or maybe you're just being irritable because you feel like they won your parents over without your permission.”

 

Hermione's face pinched, and Harry started laughing at her expression.

 

“I think you've rendered her speechless. Is that a first, Ginny?”

 

“Probably. Do I get a reward?” the redhead asked, cheekily. “Say, when is Ron coming by with Susan? You know, I really think they're getting on quite well. Lucky him.”

 

Hermione's face pinched further. Of course Ron had had the good fortune to get matched with Susan Bones, a rather pretty Hufflepuff girl. He'd been uncertain about it, but they'd signed the contract rather easily and started spending time together, and now whenever he mentioned her, he looked positively chuffed.

 

“Don't be jealous, Hermione,” Harry cautioned her.

 

“Yeah, you guys broke up, remember?” Ginny added.

 

“She's not jealous because of Ron,” Harry clarified, laughing a bit. He sent Hermione a pitying look. “You should be happy for Ron. Having the both of you be miserable in your matches would have been unbearable for me, you know.”

 

“Oh, well, we wouldn't want _you_ to be uncomfortable or upset,” Hermione snipped, earning a bit more laughter. “I can't believe you're laughing at a time like this! My life is getting slowly destroyed and everyone around me is having a great time and ignoring that little tidbit.”

 

“What would you have me do?” Harry spread his hands. “They're treating you well, for now. Until that changes, or until the law suddenly zips out of existence, I don't have many choices, here, Hermione. I mean, are you really upset that Draco and his family are being _nice_?”

 

“Yes! Because... Because they're up to something,” she said, a bit desperately.

 

“I feel like I've heard this conversation before,” Ginny said, slowly, pointing between them. “But you were playing opposite parts. Isn't it Harry's job to randomly accuse people of wrongdoing and your job to say that he's an idiot for jumping to conclusions?”

 

Hermione planted her hands on her hips. “I am being upset at Malfoy, and I don't care what you say, and if you don't want to get a taste of my pimple jinx, you will _support me and also be upset at Malfoy_.”

 

“For being nice?” Ginny clarified, eyebrows raising.

 

“Yes!”

 

“Alright,” the redhead agreed, adopting a dry tone that would have put Snape to shame. “How dare they invite you and your parents over, provide a _lovely_ evening, and make your parents feel welcomed and happy in their company? The _nerve_ of some people.”

 

Hermione inhaled, counting to ten. “I'm leaving, and I'm leaving because I'm about to hex you, not because you're right or because you've won.”

 

Harry's chortling was ringing in her ears as she Apparated home. And the worst part was, he was right. She couldn't very well get all up in arms because the Malfoys were, for once, _not_ being awful. And Ginny was right, too; it wasn't like her to accuse people of things when she had no proof.

 

After a long night of pouting at her books, she realized she had to concede their point and adopt a different strategy. If the Malfoys were going to be... nice...

 

Well, she'd have to be nice back, lest she look like a right prat, wouldn't she?

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Neville got paired with Hannah Abbot a week later, which made Hermione want to trash her entire flat. Where was the justice? Ron got a lovely Hufflepuff, and Neville got the girl he was _already seeing_? This was the least fair thing to happen in the entire history of the world, she was _quite_ sure, and she knew a lot of world history.

 

Trying to ignore her worsening mood, she threw herself into her work trying to create a better working relationship between trolls and wizards. It was tough work, what with the trolls being on the “bad” side of the recent war, but she felt like she was making some progress.

 

Sort of.

 

That particular morning, a peace talk had fallen through and erupted into a fight with the lead troll throwing her boss into the wall in a rage because of some slip of the tongue that she'd _tried_ to warn him about (he spoke to the lead troll as if it were a male, not seeing the subtle indicators that it was, in fact, a female troll he was speaking to), but he hadn't paid attention, and now he was cross with _her_ because it had been her job to prepare him for the meeting.

 

Life was just not fair sometimes.

 

Hermione had her head on the desk, arms wrapped over her head, when a voice that was becoming far too familiar for her liking drawled, “Is this how work gets done at the Ministry these days?”

 

Moaning miserably, she straightened. “ _Not today_ , Malfoy.”

 

“You know, as your fiance, perhaps you should grow accustomed to calling me by something other than my surname.”

 

“How does Arsehole work for you?”

 

His eyes went half-lidded with amusement. “My first name should be sufficient,” he said, refusing to rise to her bait. Then he added, “Hermione.”

 

She pulled a face. “Oh. Don't. That just sounds so... wrong.”

 

“What, Hermione? Hermione,” he murmured, tasting it on his tongue. “Hermione,” he said, in a tone that was positively _indecent_.

 

“Stop that!”

 

He smiled, leaning against the flimsy wall of her cubicle. “It's lunchtime. Let's go.”

 

“I work through lunch.”

 

“Not today, you don't. Let's go,” he repeated. His imperious tone made her want nothing more than to tell him to sod off and go right back to working. As if sensing it, he narrowed his eyes and added, “Or I can go have lunch with your parents. They sure seem taken with me, don't they?”

 

“You stay away from my parents, you toad,” she bit out.

 

“I suppose you better get your cloak on, then,” he said, a small smirk touching his lips.

 

She huffed and she puffed, but ten minutes later she was walking with him through the halls. People stared at them as they passed, a fact Malfoy studiously ignored. She caught a good share of pitying looks, and, to her utter confusion, a handful of sharp, jealous ones. She would _never_ understand people.

 

He stepped outside into the crisp March air, heading purposefully down the street. She had no choice but to follow, grumbling.

 

She balked, though, when she saw the fancy place he'd brought her to.

 

He stepped through the doors, not noticing, and then stepped back out with a look of irritation. “Hermione,” he said, warningly, drawing her name out obnoxiously.

 

“I can't go in there. I'm not dressed for it,” she complained.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Why, because you're wearing your dowdy work robes, that shapeless sack you call a skirt, and that hideous blouse? Nonsense, you're a _vision_.” At her glare, he sighed and grabbed her arm, pulling her inside. “It doesn't matter what you're wearing. You're with me. But when we marry, my mother is going to insist on getting your a proper wardrobe.”

 

“You agreed no deciding how I dress!” she reminded him, hotly.

 

“It would be a gift. Of course, you could throw the gift back in her face like a bad-tempered _child_ , if you so choose.”

 

Her retort was swallowed up when he led her to a table already containing her new in-laws. She stopped, and he turned to face her, looking unamused.

 

“It's just lunch, Hermione.”

 

“It is not. This is a sneak attack,” she accused.

 

“What did we agree on a few weeks ago? Victims together, not enemies, remember?” She fell silent, and he raised his eyebrows at her. When she gave him a resigned look, he smiled a bit. “Good. Now try and look happy.” He waited, and when she glared at him, he reached out and tried to push the corners of her mouth up. “No, see, you move your mouth like this.”

 

She slapped his hands away, shoving past him with an angry growl to his parents. She missed the faint smirk that spread across his face as she did so.

 

Despite moving on ahead of him, he was right there behind her to pull her chair out when she went to sit. She shot him a cross look, but sat. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,” she muttered. She choked out, “It's lovely to see you again.”

 

“Please, call us Lucius and Narcissa,” Narcissa insisted.

 

Hermione would rather Avada Kedavra herself. But when they both waited expectantly, she forced out, “Good afternoon, Lucius. Narcissa.”

 

“I was just telling Hermione about how you'd be eager to get her some new clothes,” Draco offered, and Narcissa's eyes lit up, to Hermione's horror.

 

“Oh, yes. I mean, I know you can't help your current state. Draco's told me about your financial situation.”

 

“What financial situation?” Hermione demanded. “I do just fine for myself.”

 

All three blondes stared at her. That same polite stare they'd utilized when her parents had made a faux pas or said something they considered stupid.

 

She glared at them.

 

“Of course you do,” Narcissa soothed. “Still, I'd be delighted to extend your wardrobe. Consider it my wedding gift.”

 

“You know, we don't have to treat this like a real... wedding,” she said, uncomfortably. “We can just treat it like a business contract. Isn't that essentially all it is? It doesn't have to be so very personal.”

 

“I cannot imagine that the circumstances leading up to you birthing Draco's child could be less than personal,” Lucius pointed out, calmly.

 

“Oh, I meant to bring that up, actually. I think there's a way we could have a child and never... do that part at all,” Hermione said, brightening up a bit as she remembered. She blushed as they stared at her, realizing this was indelicate conversation for lunch, but then... maybe she was just an indelicate person. “Muggles have a method of implanting fertilized eggs directly into the womb. They'd take the eggs out of me, and a sample from... Draco, and then they'd use science to make the baby.”

 

Narcissa looked horrified, her face blanching.

 

Lucius put his napkin in his lap. “No. I do not want the next Malfoy to be built in one of your Muggle petri bowls.”

 

“Dishes,” Hermione corrected, automatically. “And they just fertilize the egg that way. The egg would then be put in me, and I'd give birth like normal. And it would still be half me, and half Draco. Nothing changes except that first part.”

 

“A synthetic baby?” Narcissa whispered. “It would almost certainly result in a squib.”

 

“What? No. No, it's still the same genetic baby,” Hermione insisted, growing frustrated. At the blank stares she got, she made an indignant noise. “Genetics? Our genes? It would still have Draco's genes and my genes, it wouldn't be any more likely to be a squib than usual.”

 

“That's preposterous,” Lucius said, his voice flat with denial. “It stands to reason that a magical baby would need to be conceived in the traditional wizarding way.”

 

“What?” Hermione demanded. “It certainly does not stand to reason. _Any_ reason. There is absolutely no logic--”

 

“Hermione, can I have a quick word?” Draco asked, smoothly. He stood, leading Hermione calmly away as Lucius tried to calm Narcissa down a bit. As soon as they were in the hallway leading to the loo, he stopped and turned, putting his hand on her collarbone and pinning her to the wall. Stunned, she froze there, and belatedly realized she should probably try and grab for her wand. When she glanced at his face, though, she just stared up at him. “What the bloody hell was all that?” he asked, his voice soft enough to almost have belied the fact that he was clearly furious.

 

“What?” she demanded, defensive. “You can't tell me my way isn't preferable.”

 

“It isn't, actually,” he snapped. At her bewildered look, he held up his hand, showing her the ring. “Because of this. It's you, or it's nothing, and it is damn well _not_ going to be nothing.”

 

“Then take it off! Mine will still work even if yours is off, won't it?”

 

“Of course it won't, but if you want to take the rings off, just say the word,” he drawled, eyes going half-lidded, his gaze almost predatory.

 

She swallowed. “No, I don't.”

 

He lowered his hand from her, and she smoothed her hand across the place it had been. The warmth lingered from his palm in her clothes. “Good,” he murmured. He adjusted her collar a bit, earning a startled, deer-in-headlights look from her that made him smirk again.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Fixing your clothes,” he responded. “Get used to my touch, Hermione. It's not going anywhere anytime soon.” He tweaked one of her curls, turning and heading back out into the dining room.

 

She stole a couple of minutes to herself, trying to calm her breathing. None of this made much sense; when they'd first started, he'd seem as upset by their match as she was. Was he _coming around to it_ , now, or something? Since when did he ever willingly touch her, a _Mudblood_?

 

She supposed he just wasn't looking forward to a couple of sexless years of marriage, but neither was _she_ , and she wasn't putting her paws all over him.

 

Still confused but at least calm, she turned and headed back out into the dining room to rejoin her future husband and in-laws.

 


	6. Friends In Unlikely Places

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Six: Friends In Unlikely Places**

 

…

 

Lunch went fine. As soon as she sat down, Narcissa asked her about her workday, and it seemed like the unspoken promise of the table was to never mention Hermione's hideous petri dish baby idea ever again. Hermione answered questions when spoken to, but for the most part she was quiet as she ate, her mind churning.

 

Draco didn't seem put off by sex with her, which she supposed was understandable when the other option was sex with no one.

 

But she was still very much put off by sex with him.

 

Would the ring protect her against an attempted rape? She wanted to ask, but she wasn't sure how to bring it up without risking Draco's temper. Surely he didn't _intend_ to rape her. Surely he was not a rapist. Surely.

 

But how sure was she of that “surely”?

 

She still felt the heat of his palm against her collarbone, and her stomach flip-flopped a bit. She'd have to have Bill take another look. She knew sex with Draco Malfoy was unavoidable if he would not consent to providing the sample for artificial insemination, but she'd always largely assumed that the interaction would occur on her terms.

 

Given his words in the hallway just then, she wasn't sure if he was willing to wait for her terms. She was shaken a bit to realize how much that frightened her. Would the ring consider it a rape if it was her husband?

 

She didn't have the appetite for dessert, and begged off, leaving the lunch early and rushing outside. She spent the rest of her lunch hour walking around aimlessly, her mind and stomach churning uncomfortably. Finally, she went back inside and buried herself in blessed work again. At least the matter of the failed troll peace talks was no longer bothering her.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Arthur had asked Bill and Fleur to come by with Victoire, and Hermione had shown him the ring again, posing her question as delicately as she could.

 

“If he tried to... force me, would the ring consider that harmful?”

 

Ron blanched. “Hermione, has that ferret given you reason to think that he'd force you?”

 

She pressed her lips together. “Not now, Ron. I just want the answer to my question. Bill, please?”

 

Sobering up a bit at the nature of her inquiry, he waved his wand over her hand, examining the fine mist again. He grimaced a bit. “It's an incomplete picture without his ring,” he admitted. He tried a few more times, but gave up. “I don't know.”

 

Swallowing, Hermione inhaled slowly, trying not to get all panicky.

 

“Hermione,” Ron said, slowly. He took her hand, drawing her attention to him. His blue eyes were hard as flint, a strange expression on his usually good-natured face. “What exactly did Malfoy do or say to you?”

 

Shakily, she explained, and Ron all but exploded.

 

“That slimy little--! I'm going to find him and hex him into _oblivion_ ,” he swore, jumping out of his seat and pacing. That was always what he did when he got upset; he always had to move, as if he would burst into flames if he didn't get the kinetic energy out. It made him very bad at comforting, to be honest, because he wouldn't sit still enough for a hug in this state.

 

Arthur and Bill didn't start ranting, but their expressions indicated they shared Ron's viewpoint.

 

Then Fleur said, “I don't know that he meant it that way.” She said it thoughtfully, but almost off-handedly; she was playing with Victoire and only paying a scant amount of attention to the conversation. When her words brought about a ringing silence, she looked up, seeming surprised to find all eyes on her. “Well,” she said, slowly. “He is a handsome man, no?”

 

“No,” Ron spat.

 

She ignored him. “And he is used to having many women, yes?” She directed that to Hermione, and all eyes went to her.

 

Hermione blinked at the sudden attention. “What? _I_ don't know,” she said, frowning at Fleur. “Presumably? Although I can't imagine how anyone can look past that awful attitude long enough.”

 

“So you propose a decade of celibacy to him, maybe he is not so happy with that?”

 

“That doesn't mean that he can just do whatever he wants to her!” Ron spluttered.

 

Fleur glared at him. “I did not say he would do that,” she said, enunciating her words carefully. “Maybe he just means that Hermione should be used to him _trying_.”

 

“Trying what?” Hermione whispered.

 

“To seduce you,” the blonde said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “He does not want to be alone for sex, yes? So he must seduce.”

 

Ron stared at the part-veela, looking a little green. “Imagining Malfoy putting the moves on anyone is going to make me sick all over this floor,” he announced, flatly. “Let's assume, for Hermione's safety, that he's the utter arsehole we all know him to be and he might try and force her. Hermione, what would you do?”

 

“Hex him, I guess. Stupefy him.”

 

Bill made a thoughtful noise. When Hermione glanced at him, he smiled. “You know, I bet George has a better idea than that.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Two hours later, she was leaving George's joke shop with a small pod. He'd told her that if she ever came to trouble, to just break the pod, and it would start screaming _Rape! Murder! Arson! Someone help!_ It was loud enough, he promised, to wake up anyone in a quarter-mile, and surely loud enough to give Malfoy a start.

 

And that start may be all she needed to hex his balls off.

 

Once she touched her wand to the pod, it would stop screaming its nonexistent head off, but not before everyone in a quarter-mile radius knew that someone was in trouble.

 

The pod dangled around her neck on an invisible string, hanging in the relative safety of her cleavage so it wouldn't go off accidentally. She felt a little silly wearing it, if she were being honest with herself, but better safe (and embarrassed) than sorry.

 

She'd gone home, where an owl was waiting for her – belatedly she recognized it as Draco's. She couldn't believe that thing was still alive.

 

Opening the kitchen window, she said, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” The owl flew in, and circled a few times before finally deciding that her kitchen table was the _least_ offensive place to land. She scowled a bit at it, mentally cataloging it alongside Prissy in her mind. She found it to be a strange twist of irony that _Lucius_ Malfoy had the nicest owl.

 

“Want some ham?” she asked it warily. It glared at her, and she wasn't sure if that was a _yes, get me ham immediately_ or a _no, how dare you assume I eat ham, you peasant_.

 

She decided to play it safe and grab him some ham.

 

He made a big show of ignoring it at first, but eventually, when her arm was beginning to tire from holding it aloft, he snapped it up, glaring at her steadily as he ate.

 

She opened the letter, scanning the contents cautiously.

 

_Hermione,_

 

_Dinner tomorrow, Manor. 8pm. You can either bring your parents or ONE of your friends._

 

_For Merlin's sake, dress up._

 

_Draco_

 

Scowling ferociously, she crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor, earning an outraged hoot from Draco's owl. “Shut up. Get out. I'm not writing back,” she told it, standing and heading for her room. Did he really think he could just boss her around like that?

 

Well, he had another think coming.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she didn't arrive to the dinner, she expected Draco to show up at her flat to collect her.

 

Which was why she had gathered Crookshanks, some clothes, and gone to Harry's to spend the weekend. It left a bad taste in her mouth, kind of like cowardice, but Harry was quick to remind her that being smart (ever her forte) wasn't the same as being cowardly. Sitting alone in her home waiting for Draco to sneak in like he seemed so fond of doing was hardly smart.

 

“Stay the week, if you want,” Ginny offered, kindly. “Although I can't help but think that poking his temper is going to make him reconsider this 'new leaf' of niceness he's supposedly turning.”

 

“He should have considered that before he started treating Hermione like a house elf,” Harry said, grimly. He didn't like the sound of the letter his friend had described. “Hermione was right, in a way. He may be acting the chivalrous knight in front of an audience – namely, her parents – but from all accounts, he's still a right git to her in private.”

 

“And it's about time he realized that trying to order me around and acting like an arsehole is not in the best interests of what he's trying to achieve,” Hermione added, lips pursing.

 

Ginny nodded. “Either way, he definitely should have asked you nicely.”

 

They were disrupted by a tapping at the window, and Hermione made a discontented noise when she recognized Draco's owl. “How do they do that? Just find anyone like that?” she demanded, as Harry moved to the window to open it up.

 

He got a bite on the finger for his trouble, and yelped, sticking the offending digit in his mouth.

 

Ginny couldn't help but laugh. “His owl's picked up some lousy manners, I see. I wonder who from?”

 

The eagle owl coasted across the room, dropping a letter in Hermione's lap. Then he landed on top of the bookshelf, glaring hatefully at everyone in the room as she sighed, opening the letter up.

 

_Granger,_

 

_I suppose you think you're very funny. Are you determined to make my mother think you hate her?_

 

Hermione's expression turned a little grim. “He's trying to soften me up,” she said, softly. Harry took the letter from her and read it, frowning.

 

“Maybe,” he said, slowly. “But why use Narcissa as the one to soften you up? She's not exactly the nicest person. Or at least she wasn't before. She always looked like she smelled something awful, remember that?”

 

“She's been nice lately,” Hermione admitted, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I kind of get the sense she really does want me to like her. I don't really know what to make of it.”

 

Harry's frown deepened as he re-read the letter. “Well, the two options are that she really does like you and wants you to like her—” He paused as Ginny about collapsed in on herself laughing, and waited for her to calm down before continuing. “Or they want to make you think she does.”

 

“Why would they want that?”

 

He shrugged. “You're the brain of the operations, Hermione. I'm just the pretty face.” He grinned, although it dampened a bit when Ginny's hysterics resumed. “You're a _bad_ wife.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The letters didn't stop there, and they weren't just from Draco. There was two sad-sounding letters from Narcissa, asking what she'd done to upset Hermione so, and insisting that if Hermione just gave her a chance, she'd love the dinner parties Narcissa threw. She was obviously very proud of her abilities as a hostess.

 

There was a stern letter from Lucius warning her that memories of rudeness had a tendency to linger.

 

Then there were Draco's.

 

At first, they were mostly mocking, probably in an attempt to get her to reply. When she didn't, they grew more sincerely angry, demanding that she cease her disrespect at once and apologize to his mother. She didn't know why, but when it came to his defensiveness about his mother, she just had the feeling that it was a sincere protectiveness.

 

But she steeled herself against the notion, because as Harry was fond of reminding her, they were all a pack of Slytherins and wore emotions like clothing; whatever was handy for the situation would do.

 

The angry letters stopped, and there was a blissful eight hours of peace before she got one final one.

 

_I'm sorry. Meet me at the cafe at eight tomorrow? You start work at nine, right?_

 

She chewed her lower lip, wondering if the apology was sincere. When she couldn't decide, she did what she always did and showed it to all her friends. Ginny had just shrugged, having the emotional intuition of a dishrag, but Harry (to her shock and amusement) started examining the quill-strokes intensely, trying to decipher Draco's likely emotional status during the time of writing.

 

“It looks like he pressed into the paper a little,” he finally said. “I think he's still angry.”

 

“Will you stop staring at Draco's letter like a lovesick girl?” Ginny demanded. “I need you to give James a bath.”

 

“I don't think he's _really_ sorry, is all.”

 

“Harry!”

 

Hermione laughed, plucking the letter out of Harry's hands. “Harry, help Ginny before she hexes you. I can't very well avoid my fiance forever, anyway. I'll have to go, or else he'll just barge into my office and make a scene there.”

 

She penned a terse acceptance, sending it back with Malfoy's owl – which had stubbornly waited _inside_ the entire time, refusing to leave until it got a response.

 

“You know what's sad? If this kind of persistence was coming from anyone else, it would actually be kind of sweet,” Ginny commented absently, from where she was making Harry's lunch. Harry ushered James upstairs.

 

Hermione made a face. “I don't think it'd be sweet at all. More like really creepy. Do you think he realizes how creepy he's acting?”

 

“Come on, Hermione, haven't you ever seen a romance movie? Girls always swoon over this sort of stuff. Please meet me! Please meet me! I'll just die without you!” The redhead made a big show of swooning over the counter.

 

“You're not even close. It's more like, _Meet me, or else I'll find you and then I'll slice your head off with a butter knife for disobeying_.”

 

“Ew, a butter knife. What a way to go.”

 

Hermione snorted a bit, and stood. “I'm knackered from all this thinking. I'm going to head to bed and try not to think about tomorrow.”

 

“Goodnight Hermione. I love you,” Ginny sing-songed up the stairs, laughing.

 

She brushed her teeth – there was only one bathroom, but James was only four and she'd already seen him naked tons of times while babysitting, so that was almost routine – and bade Harry a good night before crawling into bed. That night, she dreamed that she was trapped in a fancy restaurant in a burlap sack while Draco and his parents laughed at her pitiful attire.

 

That is to say, she did not wake up feeling very much like she wanted to see Draco Malfoy.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He was already there when she walked in, in her “dowdy” work clothes, as he'd so kindly put it. The nightmare of the sack lingered in her mind as she'd gotten dressed that morning, but she'd staunchly refused to bend to his expectations of her. So normal work-clothes, it was.

 

He stood as she approached, moving over to pull out her seat.

 

“Oh, stop, Malfoy, I can sit in my own chair.”

 

“Has it occurred to you that a true gentleman likes doing such things for his fiance?” he asked, his voice much tighter than his expression would have suggested. He sat down across from her his gaze too intense for so early in the morning. “Would you care to explain yourself, first?”

 

She straightened, casting him a cool look. “What's there to explain?”

 

“Why didn't you come to dinner?” he grit out.

 

“Because you didn't ask me if I was free or if I wanted to go,” she enunciated. “You missed a rather crucial step there, being such a _true_ gentleman.”

 

His jaw clenched, eyes flickering dangerously, but she refused to falter, glaring at him flatly. “And you didn't respond to any of our owls.”

 

“I didn't feel like it.”

 

“Don't you think I should at least know what my wife is doing, where she is? What if you'd been sick, or dying? Don't I deserve to be aware?” he demanded, knuckles going white as his fingers folded tightly around each other in front of him.

 

Hermione leaned towards him. “I think what you mean to say is that you don't appreciate that I slipped your leash for the weekend. Tell me, Malfoy, did you Apparate into my flat without my permission again?”

 

“You allowed me that in the contract.”

 

“To visit our future _children_ ,” she snapped. “Not to visit me, or to come and collect me like an errant child.”

 

“The contract failed to specify that,” he pointed out. “You can't ward against me, now. Didn't you test that, and see for yourself?”

 

“Yes, that's why I wasn't there. I may not be able to ward you out of my house, but I can go to a house that someone else has warded,” she said, sweetly. “A nice little loophole I'll have to remember if I should ever feel like absconding with our children, don't you think?”

 

His expression settled into a cold fury. “Don't threaten me.”

 

“Why? Worried that if we're on equal footing, I'll best you like I did in school for seven straight years?”

 

He slammed his fist into the table, making her jump and earning the stares of everyone else in the cafe. It took him a moment to calm down, and she watched with morbid fascination as he collected himself. When he was really angry, he pressed his lips together so hard they turned white, almost disappearing from his face. When he spoke again, his voice sounded calmer, but a little snappy, as if anger was threatening to explode out at any moment. “I don't know why you insist on making everything so difficult,” he finally said, slowly.

 

Hermione stared at him, realizing that his frustration actually stemmed from a sincere ignorance. She got the feeling that he really _didn't_ know why she was “making things difficult.” The fact that they could be on such entirely different wavelengths made the prospect of their marriage all the more worrisome.

 

The waitress stopped by meekly, and he grit, “Coffee.” She darted away to get it.

 

The curly-haired bookworm watched him for another moment, considering explaining herself. Something told her not to, though. Better not to tip her hand too early. “How am I making things difficult?” she finally asked, surprised by how calm she sounded.

 

“Because!” he snapped, and then managed to calm himself again before continuing. “Because. You're going out of your way to upset me and my parents. We were polite. We welcomed your family, and you sat there looking like you'd just eaten a bunch of sour grapes. We invited you to a nice lunch and you nearly threw my mother into hysterics by suggesting we grow our baby in a petri bowl--”

 

“Dish.”

 

His glare intensified, and she raised her hands a bit in surrender. “And then I invited you to a dinner party my mother was throwing and you failed to show up without even a word. You didn't even send me an owl to actually decline. You just. Didn't. Come. Leaving me and everyone else to wonder if you were dead by the roadside, if you'd fled the country, or more likely, if you'd finally studied yourself into a coma.”

 

She crossed her arms as the coffee arrived. He didn't put sugar in hers, this time. Petty bastard. “You didn't _invite_ me. You ordered me to show up,” she said, flatly. “And I will not be ordered around by you.”

 

“You really know how to hold a grudge, Granger.”

 

“It's not a grudge,” she said, firmly. “Nobody orders me around like that. It's a matter of basic human decency. I'm a person, not your slave, not your elf, and not your dimwitted trophy wife. If you want me to do something, you're going to ask, and if you really want me to agree, then Merlin help you, you are going to _ask nicely_.” The icy steel in her voice calmed her, in a weird way. She realized that what she'd hated most about this entire situation was how... out of control it had gotten. From the moment the Malfoys had appeared instead of Ron and Arthur in that little room at the clerk's office, her mind had been in a permanent tailspin. And the Malfoys had taken to it like ducks to a pond, making her feel all the more ungainly in this new and odd situation.

 

Perhaps it had just taken Malfoy making the right mistake to send her into the right kind of righteous fury to make her remember what really mattered when dealing with pompous, pureblooded gits.

 

The way they charmed her parents didn't matter. The contract and all its stupid extra rules didn't matter.

 

What _did_ matter was that Draco Malfoy and his parents not think for even one second that they could push her into doing something she didn't want to do. She wasn't a mindless follower of Voldemort. They could not _threaten_ her. She would _not_ be bullied.

 

She stared at Draco, and he stared back, and for the moment it seemed they were simply going to be at an impasse.

 

“You can't expect me to act like the whipped husband in public,” he finally said. “I won't do it.”

 

“You have real problems if you see no middle ground between ordering me around like one of your house elves and feeling like you're 'whipped,'” she said, disgusted. “You wouldn't act this way towards one of your friends. Are you telling me you can't extend the same courtesy to your _wife_ that you do your friends?”

 

He licked his lips, regarding her, still frustrated but now a little unsure of how to proceed. “So you want me to treat you like a friend.”

 

“I should hope so. Aren't we going to be spending enough time together for that?”

 

“I thought you wanted this to be a 'business contract,'” he drawled, cocking an eyebrow at her. “What happened to that notion?”

 

“Shot out of the water when your parents refused to listen to it,” she retorted. “Now, we can either spend the next ten years in absolute misery, or you can learn to stop being such a sod.”

 

“And what about you? You'll learn to stop being such a prissy little princess?”

 

“If there are personal attributes of mine that you _disagree_ with, voice them and I will attempt to rectify them,” she said, trying to stay calm. Because knowing him, he'd have quite the list.

 

He laughed incredulously, proving her right. “And when I voice them, you won't get all huffy?”

 

“I didn't say that. It's hard to listen to criticism,” she defended. “I'll probably get upset. But then I'll go home, I'll think about it, figure out if it's something I can change or if it's something I can't, and then I'll be able to move on from there and let you know. But I can't do that if you just sneer at me and don't bother to explain why.”

 

Draco sobered a bit as she spoke, watching her. Finally, he said, “I want you to be nice to my mum.”

 

“What does 'nice' mean, in this instance?” she asked, carefully.

 

“Talk to her when she talks to you. Like you _mean_ it, not like you're trying to get through a Ministry function and everyone has bad breath,” he said, eyes hardening a bit. She felt another twinge of guilt. “Let her buy you clothes and come to her stupid parties. Yes, I know they're stupid, but I go because she likes them and wants me to go. And I want you to go to them, too, and pretend that you're enjoying yourself. And just marry me in August, for Merlin's sake, the only thing waiting will do is make her upset for no reason.”

 

Hermione exhaled roughly. “I'll agree to all of it except marrying you in August. I'm not ready to think about that, yet. But I'll... I'll talk to her and go to her parties. And be nice. I can do that.”

 

“And let her buy you clothes.”

 

She made an indignant noise. “My clothes are _not that bad._ ”

 

“It sincerely and honestly _frightens_ me that you actually think that,” Draco informed her. “And in any case, even if you did have impeccable fashion sense, it makes her happy to give gifts to people, so just let her do it and stop being so pigheaded.”

 

She glared at him, but jerked a grudging nod. “Fine.”

 

He relaxed a bit. “And in return, I'll be... I will attempt to be more courteous and less demanding,” he said, sounding a bit strangled as he said it. It struck her that his demanding nature was probably less because she was his wife and more because he was just a spoiled brat and always had been.

 

Hell, he probably _did_ speak to his friends the way he spoke to her. Perish the very thought.

 

It also didn't escape her notice that he'd amended his promise from 'I'll be' to 'I will attempt to be.' She wasn't sure if that was him trying to weasel out of future courteousness or just him trying to be realistic and not make a promise he couldn't keep. She decided not to press the issue, for the moment. Things were tense enough as it was.

 

She took her coffee and sipped it, relaxing a bit as well. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot to me.”

 

He looked uncomfortable with her gratitude, and frowned at his coffee. For a few moments, she thought maybe he just wouldn't respond to it. Finally, he just said, “Alright.”

 

They spent the next ten minutes in silence as they finished their drinks, neither sure of what to say to the other. When Hermione finally stood to head to work, he stood with her, and said, “I'll walk you.”

 

And, in the interest of maintaining their careful truce, she agreed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The next week fell into a sort of odd routine. Draco requested to meet her for coffee before work every day, insisting upon it because she refused to leave the office for lunch more than once a week. He didn't bring his parents to lunch again that week, which meant she was pretty much forced to accept Narcissa's invitation to tea and a day of shopping on Saturday.

 

Her first “coffee date” – yes, she was accepting the term, at Ginny's behest – was awkward and a little stilted, mostly full of small talk that she knew she hated and rather thought Draco hated, too. As the week wore on, though, the conversations became a bit more sincere, delving into family life and how their respective friends were doing. She found out he was still good friends with Pansy and Blaise, although he'd never reconnected with Goyle after the war ended.

 

She saw Lucius in the Ministry once, and he had frowned at her, still obviously upset about her failing to show up to his wife's dinner party the week before. However, when she made to ignore him and walk past, he had said, “Good morning, Hermione” in the most polite tone she'd ever heard from the man. Startled, she'd managed to choke out a reply before hurrying away.

 

Part of her expected to wake up at any moment from what was clearly the weirdest dream she'd ever had.

 

But every morning, she woke up in this strange new life instead.

 

March crept into April mid-week, bringing along a load of the usual rain and sending her hair into a permanently frizzy mess. By Saturday, her hair was a riotous mess of fuzz that she couldn't tame for the life of her; when she showed up at the Manor for her tea-date with Narcissa, the beautiful blonde had jolted badly from the shock.

 

“Oh, my dear, what happened?” she breathed, pressing a hand to her throat. Hermione noticed she'd replaced the wedding ring with a humongous diamond one.

 

“It's just the humidity,” Hermione sighed. “It always makes my hair go crazy.”

 

“Oh,” Narcissa said, eying Hermione's hair as if she expected it to jump straight off the girl's head and attack the nearest living thing. “Well... You know, I think I might know a charm for that,” she murmured, pulling out her wand.

 

“No!” Hermione cried, throwing her hands up protectively around her head. Narcissa stared at her, lowering her wand uncertainly, and she remembered her promise to Draco. “I mean-- when I was in fifth year, Lavender Brown tried to charm my hair straight and it fell off my head and I had to walk _bald_ down to Madame Pomfrey--” She flushed a bit, a little embarrassed to be admitting to Narcissa, of all people, that she'd cared about something as mundane as her appearance.

 

However, Narcissa smiled, equal parts amusement at the story and in honest sympathy. “Poor girl, I can't imagine. Well, I think I can perform a little hair charm better than a fifth-year girl. Will you allow me?”

 

She hesitated, still torn, but finally lowered her arms and nodded.

 

Narcissa thought for a moment as she regarded the utter _beast_ that was Hermione's hair, and then murmured something as she flicked her wand at the mop of curls. Hermione froze where she was, not feeling any different, and cast Narcissa an unsure look.

 

The blonde woman smiled, taking her elbow in a gentle grip to pull her towards a mirror. Hermione gasped at her reflection.

 

Her curls were... well, _curls_.

 

Her hair was _behaving_. It was acting like it did on those days when she spent hours combing potions through it and meticulously combing it just so, except Narcissa hadn't done anything but mutter a charm. Hermione touched her hair, marveling at the fact that it was still soft to the touch – usually if her hair looked this good, it was sprayed stiff with hairspray to maintain the rare appearance.

 

“What charm is that?” she breathed, and flushed again. She sounded like a vain little twit.

 

“I'll teach it to you,” Narcissa promised. “Come, let's enjoy our tea. I thought it would be nice to enjoy it in the green house. I do so love the rain when it's not on me, don't you agree?”

 

Bewitched for the moment by Narcissa's twinkling laugh, Hermione followed her.

 

Okay, she was willing to admit, to herself at least, that maybe she was a little wrong about Narcissa. No, the woman had never been a shining beacon of niceness to her and her friends before, but maybe the icy demeanor was just the front she put up to the rest of the world, and she was letting Hermione see her real self because, in a weird twisted way, Hermione was now family?

 

Maybe.

 

Or maybe she was grasping at straws because despite Draco's request, she actually found herself _wanting_ to like Narcissa Malfoy, which meant she was probably going absolutely mad.

 


	7. A Subtle Difference

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seven: A Subtle Difference**

 

…

 

Tea was actually... well, great.

 

Hermione didn't know what to really think about it. It had just been her and Narcissa, and the woman was charming. Most of her side of the conversation tended to stray towards dresses, parties, and other things Hermione usually wasn't interested in, but she also didn't dominate the conversation and listened intently when Hermione spoke of work and her own interests. Sometimes, when Hermione mentioned the War in an off-hand way, a flicker of discomfort crossed Narcissa's features and the subject was quickly changed.

 

The younger woman was beginning to realize that it wasn't that Narcissa was shallow – well, not necessarily. Her obsession with pretty and shallow things seemed to be her own way of coping with the horrors of the War. And when she realized that, Hermione felt kind of _bad_ for her.

 

Harry's testimony had been the one to keep Narcissa and Draco out of Azkaban, back when the war was freshly over. Lucius had gotten one year, which, compared to the other Death Eaters, was a slap on the wrist. When Harry had explained how things had changed for the Malfoy family during the final battle – Narcissa's betrayal in the woods when she declared Harry dead, how both Lucius and Narcissa had sprinted around avoiding spells, screaming their sons name – Hermione had felt slightly disquieted. She didn't like to think about the enemies she'd hurt and killed in the war having feelings like love and fear.

 

She'd wished she could compartmentalize it like Ron, who had been the first to bounce back from the horrors of the War of the three of them. He seemed to do this thing in his head where the bodies on the battle field just became bodies, like movie props, and then he didn't have to think about who they'd been as people.

 

Harry had sought comfort in Ginny, the love they'd nurtured during the war connecting them in a deep and spiritual way. Hermione had had that with Ron, too, but it hadn't been enough – because unlike Ginny, the understanding of her mental state simply hadn't been there. Whenever she mentioned feeling guilty, he'd just grow confused and a little testy, wondering why she was wasting her time thinking about dead people when there was a living world that still needed to be set to rights. Looking back, she figured that he'd just been frightened of having to think about such things for himself.

 

So, Hermione had left for Barcelona, a sunny place where blood status didn't seem to matter. She was respected for her achievements in magic, and had endured quite a few overtures of love during her time there, although she'd never felt comfortable engaging in more than a few dates. They knew of her war hero status back home, but it didn't seem to matter much.

 

She'd realized that the great “Wizarding” war she'd been living was basically just a civil skirmish to the rest of the world. She should have realized sooner, when no other country had deigned to get involved.

 

The realization had left her feeling out of sorts for some time, like she was both hyper-aware of how miniscule the war actually had been and just how awful and bloody and disastrous it had been. In her mind, it was both the most momentous occasion of her entire life and the tiniest little blip on the world history radar.

 

Thinking about it like that, she wondered how anything in this world could truly matter. None of the witches and wizards she'd met in Barcelona that weren't from Britain even knew Voldemort's _name_. They'd heard of some civil war going on, and then they'd returned to their lives with nary a second thought.

 

All those people were dead, and nobody really cared. It was a sobering message.

 

“Hermione?”

 

She startled, blinking at Narcissa. “I'm so sorry, I got lost in my thoughts a bit. What were you saying?”

 

The blonde smiled. “Nevermind that. What were you thinking?” she asked, kindly.

 

She hesitated. “Just... It's not really appropriate conversation, for tea.” Narcissa had been so averse to discussing the war so far. She really didn't want to make the woman uncomfortable, especially when she was being so gracious.

 

“Is it an appropriate conversation for shopping?”

 

Hermione chuckled, drily. “It's kind of an all-around terrible conversation, actually. Very negative and maudlin.”

 

Narcissa's smile faded a bit, and Hermione knew she'd realized where her thoughts had been going. She reached across the table, folding Hermione's hand in hers comfortingly (seriously, when was her life going to start making _sense_ again? She couldn't take much more of this strangeness) and summoning another, sadder smile. “Let's go shopping,” she said, softly. “Take your mind off of it.”

 

And there it was. Confirmation. Narcissa had decided to cope with the war by thinking about anything else. Hermione hoped she wasn't around when the poor woman was finally forced to face it.

 

Narcissa stood, leading the way through the house. They ended up taking a rather circuitous route. Hermione almost shrugged the thought off – Narcissa liked to show off her things, after all, and taking long walks through the house achieved that purpose – but it nagged at her as they walked. With a jolt, Hermione realized they were walking _around_ something. They'd done that on the way in, too.

 

They'd done that when her parents had visited.

 

Her mouth went a little dry. They were walking around the drawing room, the room Bellatrix had _Crucio'd_ her until she'd wet her pants. Her eyes drifted to Narcissa, wondering what the woman was thinking about all of this – wondering what the woman had thought _during_ her torture.

 

Wondering if she'd felt, for even a second, that what they were doing to Hermione was wrong.

 

She was silent as Narcissa led her to the ballroom Floo, though, all smiles and cheer. Had Narcissa been like this before the war, a happy little socialite? Had the icy exterior just been her way of dealing with the hardships of war?

 

Or was the socialite Hermione saw now the broken remains of the woman she'd been?

 

Hermione knew two things for sure: She didn't think the protectiveness Draco (and Lucius, she realized, recalling his terse letters) felt for the woman was manufactured or faked. The way Draco had asked her to be nice to his mum – and the fact that so far, it was the _only_ concession Draco had asked her to make in regards to her personality – had been sincere, almost plaintive. Or it would have been, if the man knew how to be plaintive.

 

The other thing she knew for sure was that she could pretend to be nice, but she didn't think she could ever like Narcissa until she could forgive her for the role she'd played in her torture. And for that to happen, Narcissa would have to look her in the eye and talk to her about the war.

 

At least with Lucius, she knew he didn't like her and she _knew_ he likely didn't feel bad about it. But he wasn't the one trying to win her over, either.

 

If Narcissa truly wanted to be friendly, she'd have to do a lot more than buy Hermione three wardrobes and chat with her over tea.

 

The blonde woman glanced at her, smiling, and Hermione returned the smile, a little tightly. She wasn't a great actor, but she'd promised Draco she would pretend, and Hermione always did do her best to keep her promises.

 

She let the thoughts settle into the back of her mind so she could join the conversation once more, following Narcissa through the Floo to Diagon Alley.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She came back to her flat tired, and cranky, and hauling more clothes than she'd ever possessed in her entire life. That is, if she took every article of clothing she'd _ever_ had, she was pretty sure it was still less than the amount Narcissa had just bought her.

 

Hermione hated shopping.

 

It was boring, she didn't have a real interest in clothes, and having to try things on was the biggest pain in the arse she could imagine. She hated having to stand in front of mirrors looking at her _non_ -supermodel body distorting clothes meant for supermodels. She hated being poked and prodded by the fitters and her future mother-in-law. Most of all, she hated how the process took _hours and hours_.

 

Once Narcissa had figured out the best style and fit for Hermione's body – telling her that she was a little too generous in the hips and thighs, so they'd have to downplay those areas, and thank you _very much_ for the new insecurity – she'd dragged Hermione through seven different shops and had purchased everything that was the right style, fit, and color for Hermione's complexion. Hermione hadn't even realized that apparently certain colors could make your complexion look worse or better than it really was. Narcissa had been delighted to inform her that blue was simply not her color (which upset her more than she liked to admit, because Hermione loved blue and owned several articles of clothing that were blue), and that because of the excessive rosiness in her face, she'd have to stick to the warmer spectrum unless she wanted to put on make-up to get rid of that distracting red hue.

 

What Hermione hated most about shopping, she decided, was actually that she always felt awful about herself when it was over. Now she'd have to think about how her hips were abnormally large, about how she apparently had thunder-thighs, and that her face was kept in a state of permanent flush that should probably be covered with a caking of make-up to make her look like a presentable human.

 

At least her hair hadn't been a holy horror.

 

That was something.

 

Sort of.

 

Dropping the shrunk bags to the ground, Hermione fell facefirst into the couch, groaning. Her feet ached. She wanted a shower. She hated her life.

 

“Ah, I remember that.”

 

She screamed, rolling off the couch in shock. Draco stood in the doorway of the kitchen, sipping some tea. Hermione battled to control the heart attack he'd just tried to induce, and squeaked, “What are you _doing_?”

 

“Waiting for you. Fancy a cup of tea?”

 

She pushed herself to her feet. “This isn't your house, you know,” she said, crossly. “One of these days, you're going to startle me and I'm going to end up hexing you.”

 

“Is that a yes on the tea?”

 

“Malfoy!”

 

“What would have me do, wait _outside_?” he asked, nose crinkling a bit. “Besides, I wanted to hear about your girl-date with my mother.” He paused for a moment, and added, “Luv.”

 

“Don't,” she said, sharply, following him into the kitchen. She reached for the kettle and realized it was stone-cold, and gave him a curious look. He rolled his eyes, flicking his wand a few times as a teabag floated into a mug and then the mug filled with hot water. “Oh.”

 

“Right. That little thing called magic that we can do.”

 

“Sometimes it's nice to do things the old-fashioned way.”

 

“Well, you're in Wizarding Britain, now, and here, what I just did _is_ the old-fashioned way.”

 

Sighing, she sat with her mug. She was too exhausted from the day-long shopping trip with Narcissa to offer much more in the way of cheek. “It went fine. She had a lot of fun buying things.”

 

He eyed her. “From your tone, I take it that you didn't have as much fun.”

 

The bizarre day just kept growing stranger and stranger. She was talking to Draco about her _day_. She knew they'd been chatting every morning all week, but that was almost like a scheduled meeting they both had to attend. This was just because he wanted to ask. There was a major difference, and she fidgeted a bit as she thought about it far too much. “I don't really like shopping. I never have. It's boring, it takes forever, and it always makes me hyper-aware of my flaws.”

 

“Which ones?” he asked, curiously.

 

She glared at him, pursing her lips. “You're mad if you think I'm just going to _give_ you weapons to crucify my self-esteem.”

 

He thought for a moment. “The breasts? Too small?”

 

“Stop,” she ordered.

 

“Your arse. Too big,” he guessed.

 

She flushed brightly. “ _No_.”

 

He smirked, leaning back in his chair smugly. His smirk widened as she scowled. “My mother does tend to be a little single-minded when it comes to fashion. It makes her a little less tactful than she usually is.”

 

Hermione grumbled.

 

Draco was silent a moment, and then leaned forward suddenly, planting his elbows on the table. “You know what _I_ hear when she's taking me out shopping?” Hermione looked up at him, blinking as her frown faded slightly. He affected a slightly higher tone. “Draco, I don't know _where_ you got these long monkey-arms. Certainly not from your father or me. And if your ears stick out any further from your head, we'll have to pin them back with sewing needles.”

 

She was laughing, and she put a hand to her mouth to try and stifle it. Draco smiled at her – not smirked, _smiled_ – and, encouraged, she laughed a little louder, feeling some of the tension drain away from her. “Your ears don't stick out that bad. Also, I don't think your arms are too long,” she assured him.

 

“And I don't think your arse is too big,” he returned, his tone almost _warm._

 

Surprised, she blinked at him, feeling her face heat again. But this wasn't the usual way it happened; it wasn't out of mortification or fury. It was still kind of embarrassing, but the embarrassment was almost... well, _pleasant_. She realized she should probably say something, and said, sounding a little shy, “I think that's the closest you ever came to paying me a compliment, Malfoy.”

 

He hesitated, but shrugged. “You have low standards for compliments,” he observed.

 

“That's why I said you came _close_ , not that you actually _did_. Also, for your information, it was my hips. My hips are too big,” she corrected him, primly. “My thighs, too, apparently. And my face is too red.” For some reason, after he'd confessed to his mother's rude comments about him, saying those things out loud just didn't seem like a big deal, anymore. She actually found it kind of _funny_ , in retrospect, and began to laugh at herself. “I feel stupid for letting it even bother me, honestly.”

 

“Don't be silly. Nobody likes hearing things like that about themselves. Especially when it's things you can't help, like having monkey arms or elephant ears,” he added, in a dry tone, and she laughed harder. “But when it's my mother, just remember she doesn't really mean it like that. I mean, not to hurt you, or anything. It's like she's taking stock of an imperfection. Like the way you read about something in a book to feel like you understand it.”

 

“I guess it's just hard to separate the words from the intent,” she murmured.

 

“Trust me, the intent is very different from when I, for instance, made fun of your hair or your teeth back in school. I was just saying those things to tread on your nerves.”

 

“So you _didn't_ think my hair was messy and my teeth were large?”

 

“No, they were. They were absolutely horrendous,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “And, for the record, your hair still usually is--”

 

“Oh, thanks very much.”

 

“But I didn't really care about those things. It's not like it offended me personally that your hair was a big messy bush or you looked like you had a gopher in the family some generations back.” His grin was fleeting as she gave an indignant squawk. “The fact remains, I _only_ said those things to bother you. My mother says them for a very different reason.”

 

All this talk of his mum suddenly reminded Hermione of their tea together. She fell silent as she tried to figure out how best to bring it up. “She won't talk about the war at all, you know,” she finally said, giving up on trying to find a tactful way to address it.

 

Draco fell silent, sobering up a bit. “No, she won't. She doesn't like to talk about things that make her upset.”

 

“Do you think that's healthy?” Hermione questioned, frowning a bit. “I mean, if she keeps putting it off, eventually she's going to have to face all of it and then... well, will she be prepared to handle it?” The more she got to know Narcissa, the more she began to think that maybe the woman was a lot more emotionally fragile than she really let on.

 

“She won't have to. My father and I will handle it for her,” he said, calmly.

 

Her frown intensified. “That's not really good for her, though--”

 

“Hermione, do me a favor, and please _try_ to refrain from speaking as though you know my mother better than I do,” he cut in. “Your know-it-all swottiness is usually pretty annoying, but when you turn it onto my family life, it becomes extremely vexing.”

 

The overly polite way he said it – cold and distant – shut her up, and she fell into an awkward silence. Well, so sue her for trying to _help_ , she supposed.

 

Fine, she just wouldn't say anything, she resolved.

 

This resolution lasted for about thirty seconds. “It's not that I think I know her better than you do,” she said, ignoring the pained sigh Draco issued as she continued to argue. “This is standard human psychology. Running away from things that make you feel afraid or upset is almost never the proper solution. Because you just can't _run_ forever. It always catches up, and I think the worst thing to do would be to allow yourself to think that you're finally safe when it _does_ catch up.”

 

“Noted,” he drawled.

 

She huffed. “I feel like you're not really listening to me,” she began, the same rant she recalled using on Harry and Ron countless times.

 

“I am listening, I'm just not _open_ for outside suggestions at the moment,” he corrected, tightly. “I'll make a mental note of everything you just said, should I happen to change my mind in the future, but if I do make that decision, I'll probably be going to a proper mind healer instead of you, no offense meant.”

 

She scowled at him. “I think there was some offense meant.”

 

“Maybe a bit.”

 

She inhaled deeply and let it out in a gust. “Fine, fine. Don't take my advice. Which is really very good, by the way.” She ignored his snort. “But I'm not going to stop offering it when I feel like I need to.”

 

“I know.” He peered at her for a moment, and then said, slowly, “Hermione. I've always wondered.”

 

She blinked at him, waiting.

 

“This research into squibs. A lot of my friends think you had something to do with it.”

 

Hermione frowned, blinking. “Me? Why? I work in Magical Creatures.”

 

“The prevailing theory is that you so hate purebloods that you jumped at the chance to prove that they were inbreeding. Or that you're such a damn know-it-all that you couldn't let the rising number of squibs go unremarked and made some innocent research into it, not knowing that it would turn all of society on its ear.” He was watching her intently, but she didn't notice, because she was already scoffing incredulously.

 

“What a load of bullocks. People have too much time on their hands,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If you lot _were_ inbreeding, why should I care if you breed yourselves right out of existence? All the better for everyone, I say.”

 

Draco blinked, looking taken aback at her candor – and, perhaps, at the ruthlessness beneath it. If she'd made some impassioned speech about the good of everyone, he might have remained suspicious. The sheer fact that she just sat there and baldly admitted that all the purebloods could _die right off_ and she'd not give a whit about it made him look at her rather differently for a second. He decided he believed her; she really did have nothing to do with this atrocious Marriage Act.

 

“That's rather harsh,” he commented, idly, watching her.

 

“Oh, is it? Said the man who repeatedly tried to convince me and every other Muggle-born that we had no right to even existing? Is it too harsh for you?” she asked, a little mockingly. “The biggest cancer on wizarding society is you lot, not us. In any case, none of it matters, because I don't think it's true.”

 

“You don't think what is true?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

 

“The rising squib rate. You're part of the families, Malfoy. When was the last time you heard of a squib being born among you? It was Harietta--”

 

“Gallows,” he finished. “Just two years ago.”

 

“In _comparison_ , how many healthy magical babies?” she prompted, eyebrows raising. When he paused, trying to count in his head, she said, “Fourteen in the last three years. And the last pureblooded squib before Harietta Gallows was Ardor Clutch, six years prior.”

 

He tapped a finger on the table, regarding her as his mind worked. “And how many squibs among Muggle-borns?”

 

“None in the last thirty years,” she said. “Still, two squibs out of ten years, in comparison to twenty eight healthy babies? I would hardly consider that a trend. The Wizarding world is so out of touch with the scientific method. If you tried to prove a mass extinction event with those numbers to a Muggle scientist, they'd laugh themselves sick.”

 

He drained his tea. “So why the law, then?”

 

She sighed. “Well, on the more sinister end of things, someone's trying to achieve a social upheaval. However, having worked in the Ministry for the past three years, I'm inclined to believe that someone saw that two whole squibs had been born in the last decade and just spontaneously decided the world was coming to an end. It's really utter madness. There's enough pureblooded wizards and witches that inbreeding could be avoided rather successfully with just a bit of homework. Of course, that's assuming that inbreeding is actually the cause of squibbery, which I'm not convinced of.”

 

Draco's head cocked a bit. “And what do you think might be the cause of it?”

 

“I've no idea. It's a rare enough occurrence that not a lot of research has gone into it – that was considered definitive and then published, that is,” she added.

 

“It's still more common among purebloods than half-bloods and Mud-- Muggle-borns.”

 

Blinking at his self-correction, Hermione spoke slowly, deliberately. “Yes, that's true. However, there is nothing to indicate that inbreeding is actually the _cause_. The genetic pool among purebloods, even though it's a little more insulated than others, is big enough to self-perpetuate.”

 

“Perhaps since magic is involved, genetics has little to do with it,” he said, snidely. He didn't care much for her insistence on Muggle science.

 

Her eyes flashed in annoyance at his attitude, and she leaned forward, smiling coldly. “And if that were the case, you could have married the Greengrass girl just like you always planned,” she said, her smile wide and utterly frosty. She was gratified when she saw the shock register in his expression as the pieces finally all fell together.

 

Blinking at her, he whispered, “Bloody hell.”

 

“Right,” she said, letting her fake smile drop.

 

“Why didn't you say anything, then? Make a huge fuss?”

 

She shook her head. “They wouldn't have listened. Whoever did the PR for the law really worked everyone up into a right frenzy. It doesn't matter if it's wrong, right now every wizard and witch in all of Britain thinks that inbreeding makes squibs.”

 

He stared at her. “I thought right and wrong was all that mattered to you Gryffindors.”

 

Hermione sent him a returning, snide look. “Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, not stupid. There's a difference between recklessness and being an idiot, a difference I think you Slytherins fail to appreciate. When we do stupid things, it's not because we don't _think_ they're stupid. It's because, despite knowing they're stupid, we've opted to do them anyway for other reasons. And I'm a war heroine, Malfoy. If you think I don't understand how the journalism engine runs, you're mistaken. Right or wrong, public opinion is that inbreeding makes squibs. And the only way to alter public opinion is to convince every individual in that public that they're wrong, which would take the next _infinity_ years.”

 

She wasn't sure she liked the look he was giving her: one of frank appraisal, as though he were sizing up someone on the battlefield for the first time. He'd obviously been belaboring under a certain impression he'd gotten of her when she'd only been seventeen years old, and was having some trouble reconciling the last seven years' worth of change.

 

“Or,” she said, thoughtfully. “An _actual_ amount of research is done that proves beyond all doubt that this information is false, which would take a number of years regardless.”

 

“And then everyone would believe it.”

 

“No. Some people would, but most wouldn't,” she said, crisply, drawing on her experience of Muggles whenever they were presented with new science. “But a few years down the line, someone else does more research that's even more illuminating that piggy backs off the first research, and you change the mind of a few more people. And you keep doing that until enough people have accepted it.”

 

He frowned, nose wrinkling. “That might take years.”

 

“Generations, actually. And I'd say it's better than the alternative you pureblooded lot usually resort to, which is believing the same stupid nonsense you believed eight hundred years ago.”

 

Taken aback, Draco's mouth fell open. Had he heard her tone correctly? Was that _contempt_ for the pureblooded wizards of the world, for some reason other than that she felt persecuted by them? Staring at her incredulously, he said, “You think we're all stupid.”

 

“No, it's perfectly intelligent to think that our understanding of the world was _perfect_ almost a millennium ago,” she scoffed.

 

What an odd sensation this was. A mudblood. Feeling _contempt_ for him and his kind, because she thought them backwards and stupid. Draco just stared at her, silent. She didn't seem to sense his mental upheaval at this whole conversation, because she stood and grabbed his mug.

 

“Do you want another cup?” she asked, in a perfectly friendly tone, as if she hadn't just attacked his entire universe with a few pointed sentences.

 

“Thank you,” he heard himself say.

 

She made the tea, setting it down in front of him before taking her seat. “Anyway, your mother seems to think I don't look good in blue. Which made me realize that half of what I own is blue, and now I feel like I have to throw every blue thing I have into the dumpster,” she said, a bit bitterly.

 

Draco marveled at her ability to be so bloody smart that in a single tense moment she had him questioning everything he'd been taught, but so bloody stupid or naïve that she didn't even realize what she'd done and attempted to capitalize on his sudden imbalance. Instead she was talking about what colors looked good on her, as if everything she'd just revealed about squibs, this law, and his entire _life_ was nothing more than a passing comment, just one little niblet of her brilliance. It didn't even _matter_ to her that this law was likely a sham and no one else had really realized it yet.

 

Or maybe she just assumed everyone did realize it, not being aware that not everyone was quite so adept at picking apart logical failings.

 

He needed to talk to his father. Of everyone he knew, Lucius was by far the most logically exacting; Draco wondered what he'd have to say about Hermione's little revelations. He wondered if Lucius already knew, and had already come to the same conclusion Hermione had. Maybe Draco was simply the last person to board the train of thought.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

April was starting to drift by in a rainy haze. Hermione practiced the charm Narcissa had taught her on her hair, but she couldn't seem to do it just the way Narcissa had; her curls behaved _better_ , but they simply weren't as good as they'd been when Narcissa had performed the charm. And Hermione was certain she was doing it precisely as it was shown to her.

 

The tone in her and Draco's coffee dates every morning shifted after his evening tea at her flat. Before, the conversations had been a tad boring, but were at least flowing a little more easily.

 

Now, they were stimulating, but almost _demanding._ Every morning he would present her with various ideas or philosophies and they'd spend the entire hour before she went into the office hotly debating every facet of whatever he brought up. She enjoyed the arguments, and the one hour always flashed by as she threw herself into the debate, but when she was in the quiet of her cubicle, she couldn't help but wonder why the rhythm of their conversations had changed.

 

“I'm telling you, it couldn't be untrue if thousands of wizards believed it. There has to be some truth to it,” he insisted.

 

“That's a mad thing to say. Didn't we just have a conversation a few days ago about how everyone believes inbreeding causes squibs?” she pointed out, putting a piece of croissant into her mouth. She had no trouble eating in front of him, anymore. She almost felt like she did when she was arguing with Harry.

 

He pointed at her. “And you haven't _proven_ that it doesn't.”

 

“I can _prove_ to you right now that you purebloods _aren't_ inbred, if you want to come with me to the Department of Record-Keeping, which would completely negate the very notion that inbreeding and squibs are related,” she said, triumphantly.

 

“You're going off-topic,” he pointed out, smugly. She regretted explaining the rules to Muggle debates to him.

 

“You led me there,” she defended. “Anyway. I think I've proven that you can get thousands of people to believe in something that isn't real quite easily – and the so-called inferior nature of Muggles is one of those things. The only thing we're superior to Muggles in is using magic. They're not lesser creatures at all, and in comparison, the Wizarding world is a joke in terms of comparing scientific achievements.”

 

“Who cares about _science_? Bunch of nonsense.”

 

“How can you _say_ that? Science is proven! People spend their entire lives proving theories about the universe,” she gasped.

 

“I'm a wizard, and I believe what I can see with my own eyes,” Draco said, stubbornly.

 

She smacked his shoulder. “You're unbelievable!”

 

He glanced at his shoulder, blinking. She didn't notice, stuffing another piece of croissant into her mouth and going on a tirade about some big prehistoric lizards that existed once. Draco realized that this was the first time in their new acquaintance with each other that she'd willingly touched him. He remembered her doing that, actually – there had been several meals in the Great Hall where he'd witness her smacking her friends.

 

It had struck him as odd, then. Being openly physical with each other was not something Slytherins really did, and smacking a friend on the shoulder in Slytherin was liable to get one hexed.

 

He wondered if she realized she'd just treated him like a _friend_ just then, instead of her hated enemy or her begrudging forced fiance. Surely she didn't; for as smart as she was, she seemed to have several gaps in her self-awareness. And if she had realized it, she probably would have gone red, like she usually did whenever she found herself doing something unexpected.

 

“Are you even listening to me?” Her demanding voice cut through his thoughts, and he raised his eyes to her. His mother was right: Hermione's cheeks were undeniably rosy, especially when she was emotional, which she almost always was. She was chewing her croissant, another piece of it in her fingertips as she raised her eyebrows at him, her laughing eyes demanding a response. He never thought, in a million years, that he'd ever get to see her so un-guarded.

 

Blinking, he said, “No, not really. I tuned you out when you started talking about your... weird ancient dragons,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

 

“Dinosaurs, and they existed!”

 

“Whatever you say.” That comment earned him another flurry of smacks that he raised his shoulder against, shielding his face, as she declared him 'Impossible!'

 


	8. Finally, A Party

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Eight: Finally, A Party**

 

…

 

Hermione had Albus balanced on her knees, and was playing peek-a-boo with him. “Where is she?” she asked, covering her face with her hands. “Where is she? Aah! There she is!” she said, throwing her hands away from her face.

 

The toddler laughed with pure glee at the reveal.

 

Ginny stared at them from the recliner, her chin propped in her hands. “You know, I'll never understand how that can be _just_ as hilarious from when you first did it two hours ago.”

 

“He's a toddler, everything is hilarious. Even Hermione,” Ron said, in a bright tone.

 

“I'm funny!” Hermione defended, pulling a face at Ron.

 

He and Ginny exchanged a slow look and soon dissolved into laughter, clapping each other on the back and clinging to each other to keep from falling to the floor. Hermione stared at them steadily as they nearly wet their pants, perfectly unamused.

 

Harry had taken James to a new preschool after he and Ginny had decided they needed to start socializing their children, taking a page from the Muggle handbook on raising kids. Hermione wondered if Draco would be as open to the idea of preschool, knowing that he'd probably been raised by a nanny in his manor or something. She wondered if he expected to care for the children while she was away at work every day.

 

As if reading her mind, Ginny said, “You know, you haven't mentioned your little dates with Malfoy in a while. Is that a sign they're going well?”

 

“Dates with Malfoy,” Ron repeated, making a fake gagging noise.

 

“Shut up, Ron, we can't all be so lucky as to have a Susan Bones,” Hermione said, tersely. “And... actually, they've been going rather well. I'm surprised, but, we haven't had an actual fight since he ordered me to that dinner party. He's actually been on very good behavior.”

 

“Well, that makes sense, he does need to shag you eventually.” Ron hissed and ducked as Ginny slapped the back of his head. “What! Even Malfoy's not such a dumb bint as to think he can be an arsehole and still expect to get it in.”

 

“Just shut up,” Ginny muttered. “You ruin the quality of every conversation I've ever had just by existing near it, you know that?”

 

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was harming the integrity of you squealing _Oh! Boys! Quidditch! Snogging! Babies!_ ” Ron scoffed, bringing his voice high in mockery of her. “ _Oh, I hope Harry who is a boy comes to my Quidditch game to snog me while I have more babies!_ ”

 

He started fake-kissing the air, which earned him another smack as Hermione laughed. Albus laughed along with her, waving his stubby little arms excitedly.

 

Ginny planted her foot on him, shoving him away from the arm of the recliner he'd been sitting on. “You're in my house, you know, and I can kick you out any time I want.” She kicked out, and he stumbled away.

 

“This is Harry's house, and he'd never let you kick me out,” Ron insisted.

 

“Unless you grow a quim and a desire to let Harry use it, he'll do whatever I say.” She stuck her tongue out at him as he reddened, spluttering.

 

Hermione pulled a face at Ginny's language.

 

Echoing her thoughts, Ron said, “Those Harpies are destroying your social skills. Is that how you talk, now? I seem to recall getting boxed on the ears by you because I said 'bloody' in front of James _just the once_ , and you're over there talking about quims.”

 

“James isn't here and Albus just talks nonsense. I can't swear the rest of the time, so I like to get it out when I can.”

 

“You're foul.”

 

“Quit fighting,” Hermione chuckled, picking Albus up and bringing him over to Ron. “Ron, bounce him on your knee like he likes.”

 

“Oh, my nephew wants a horsey ride, is it?” Ron asked, easily distracted and already grinning down at Albus, who was cooing and kicking his legs. He settled him on his knee and jogged it up and down, earning peals of laughter from the little boy.

 

Ginny took the opportunity of Ron's distraction to join Hermione on the couch, curling up and pinning her with a narrowed gaze. “So, you like him, now?”

 

“Ron?” Hermione asked, innocently, and got a punch to the shoulder. “Ginny! Ow!”

 

“Don't make me ask again,” Ginny warned, grinning wickedly.

 

Hermione scowled at her, but then shrugged, turning thoughtful. “I suppose. I mean, not romantically, but I am starting to have fun when I'm with him. Is that odd?”

 

“I guess it's odd to think about,” the redhead admitted. “What's he like around you? I can't imagine him being anything other than the person he was at Hogwarts, to be honest. Posturing and shouting insults at people. Being stupid.”

 

She chewed on her lip. “I don't know how to explain it. He's still a pompous brat, but he actually does seem interested in my opinion on things. He disagrees with almost all of it, but... you know, he actually listens before he disagrees instead of just deciding its bollocks because I'm the one saying it.” She laughed a bit, remembering something Draco had said the day before. “And he's actually a little funny, if you'd believe it. It's really subtle, kind of hard to pick up, to be honest, but sometimes he'll make some offhand comment and have me in stitches.”

 

“I assume about other people,” Ginny guessed, squinting one eye a bit as she regarded her friend.

 

Hermione shook her head. “No, actually. They're usually a bit self-deprecating, if anything. Or sometimes he likes to tease me a little. But the worst he ever gets when talking about other people is calling Harry and Ron by his old nicknames for them.”

 

Ginny frowned, nose wrinkling a bit. “It doesn't even sound like you're describing the same person I'm remembering,” she said. “Are you sure it's not someone just Polyjuiced to _look_ like Draco Malfoy?”

 

Laughing, Hermione shrugged. “Maybe. That sure would explain a lot. But it has been seven years since I've really lain eyes on him, so maybe he just has grown up a wee bit. Although I thought the change would be a lot more drastic, to be honest. He's still quite spoiled. Maybe we just don't talk about other people enough to give him the opportunity to be his usual judgmental self.”

 

“That's probably it. Have you had to hang out with his friends, yet?”

 

“No, thank Merlin,” Hermione breathed. “A whole room of Slytherins? I don't think I could take it.”

 

“Well, if he ever does subject you to that, you'll just have to make sure you return the favor,” Ginny pointed out, grinning widely. “If you have to deal with a room full of Slytherins, then bring him 'round the Burrow for family dinner sometime as revenge.”

 

“Oh, _God_ ,” Hermione cried out, bursting into laughter at the very _image_ of that scene. “You are an _evil_ little witch, you know that?”

 

“Of course I do! Grew up 'round Fred and George, didn't I?”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She accepted an invitation to Narcissa's next dinner party, mostly because Narcissa actually sent the formal invitation requesting her presence. It was on a beautiful, little piece of parchment – elegant, in black and white. The party was to celebrate the anniversary of the opening of a foundation for the restoration of the Common Welsh Green Dragon's natural habitat, a foundation that the Malfoys had generously donated to the year prior in order to get it off the ground.

 

She wondered if she was being invited in the capacity of her work at the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, or as Draco's fiancee. She decided not to ask, marking “yes” and “plus one” on the invitation before sending it back.

 

Hermione didn't know which of her friends she'd wheedle into going, yet, but she had already decided that she wasn't going to end up being there practically alone. What if Draco invited his entire Slytherin posse?

 

She settled on Harry, and asked him to accompany her. He agreed readily. Too readily.

 

Narrowing her eyes, she said, “No stalking Malfoy around the Manor, Harry. And no skulking around the house where the party clearly isn't happening. Also no accusing him of anything crazy or trying to cross-examine him.”

 

He scoffed. “ _You_ were the one accusing him of mystery evils, not me!”

 

“Harry.”

 

He looked mutinous, but finally sighed, “Fine, I'll be on my best behavior. What day is it, again?”

 

“Saturday.”

 

“Alright, good, Ginny won't have practice. She can watch the boys. Although she's going to be irritated that you didn't decide to bring her to a fancy dress party. You know she loves a good reason to get all fancied up.”

 

Hermione hummed in thought. “I know, and I thought about bringing her, but I can't risk her asking Malfoy embarrassing questions. You know how nosy she can be. And the way she does it, where she _thinks_ she's being subtle, but she's about as tactless as a bull in a china shop.”

 

Harry grimaced. “Yeah. I know what you mean. Still, she won't like you choosing me over her.”

 

“Maybe I can just tell her the Malfoys asked you to come, because you're so famous and well-loved,” she joked. “Oh, please do bring Mr. Potter to our party,” she said, in a falsetto. “He would be such an excellent addition to our decorations.”

 

“In a second, here, I'm going to decline going and leave you with Gin and her tactless gossipy questions,” he threatened.

 

She laughed. “Thanks for coming. I'll feel a lot better with you around.”

 

His faux threatening look faded into a fond smile, and he reached for her hand, squeezing it. “Anything for you. You know that.” He pulled her towards him, into a hug. They held it for a moment, and then he coughed. “Okay, I'm _choking_ on your hair,” he complained, pulling back.

 

She smacked his shoulder indignantly, but joined him in his laughter a moment later.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She'd worn a dress Narcissa had picked out for her, those few weeks prior during their shopping trip. The dress had made the blonde woman gasp when Hermione stepped out of the dressing room, pressing her fingertips together over her mouth as she'd declared that Hermione looked 'simply stunning, my dear.'

 

Hermione examined herself in the mirror, not sure what Narcissa meant. It didn't look much different than the other dresses her future mother-in-law insisted on buying for her, and for the life of her, Hermione couldn't tell what made this one so very special.

 

It was a deep red, which she thought would be a fitting reminder of her Gryffindor heritage. The dress was relatively simple, without a lot of unnecessary embellishment, and for that reason alone Hermione sort of liked it. The collar went wide across her shoulders, meaning she had to get a special sort of strapless bra for it, but that was the fussiest thing about the dress itself. It had long sleeves that tapered to an angle at her wrists. It was form-fitting down to her waist, and then skimmed gently along her hips before dropping in a straight line to the floor. She imagined that was a “hip-shrinking” trick of the eye, or something.

 

Besides that, there were no ostentatious jewels, no complex embroidery, and absolutely nothing shiny. If anything she imagined it let her fade into the background a bit, which she much preferred.

 

She wore a golden necklace she had no doubt Narcissa wouldn't care for; it was just a chain with her zodiac sign hanging from it, a gift from her mother when she was thirteen that she'd always treasured. She left her ears bare, performed that charm on her hair (she supposed it was looking slightly better the more she practiced it), and spent most of her get-ready time trying to pin her hair back a bit so it didn't look like it was flying all over the place. She managed to get the top half wrestled into a barrette behind her head, so that her poof of curls at least stayed confined to the backside of her shoulders.

 

It was the best she could do.

 

She let Ginny come over to apply her make-up, insisting that if she wasn't going to be invited to the party then the _least_ Hermione could do was let her decide how her face looked while there. Hermione didn't quite follow the logic, but Ginny could be a right bastard about imaginary slights and grudges sometimes, so she'd given herself up immediately to the redhead's demands.

 

She'd pleaded with her, though, to not make her up like some sort of clown, which Ginny had taken _great_ offense to.

 

In the end, Hermione had gotten a dose of eyeliner and some red lipstick that she had a habit of accidentally chewing off. She licked it off a total of four times before Ginny threatened to strangle her and eventually charmed it in place. The final touch was some shimmering gold eyeshadow that Hermione had seen before Ginny put it on her face. They'd spent fifteen minutes running around her flat as Hermione tried to avoid it, but her friend won in the end and the gold eyeshadow went on.

 

She thought she looked rather stupid, but when Harry arrived, he whistled lowly. “Is that _my_ date? Merlin, I am a lucky, lucky man.”

 

“And if you want to keep having children, Mr. Lucky,” Ginny said, prodding him hard in the chest and making him wince. “You'll remember who you're coming home to, tonight.”

 

“My beautiful wife, of course,” he said, rubbing the bruise she'd poked into his chest. “How do you know I wasn't talking about you all along?”

 

“Because you were looking at Hermione!”

 

“Hermione? Who's that? I don't know any Hermione. I don't remember knowing _any_ females other than you,” Harry swore. “I'm pretty sure you're the only one that exists. Is Hermione that bloke from Accounting?”

 

Ginny giggled, leaning into him for a kiss. “Much better.”

 

They kissed for a bit before Hermione cleared her throat, eyes half-lidded as she watched them. They didn't even have the grace to look guilty as they broke apart, both grinning stupidly. “If you're _quite_ done,” Hermione drawled, grabbing the Floo powder and throwing it into the flames.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As they stepped out of the Floo – this time it was the small cloakroom in the entry to the ballroom, and not the ballroom itself – Hermione heard the rush of people and hesitated. “Okay, I put on a brave face back there for the sake of your marriage, but please tell me I look pretty,” she pleaded, turning to face Harry miserably. She knew the party would be full of glitzy, glamorous socialites, and while she was fairly confident in herself in her day-to-day life, going to a party was quite out of her element.

 

Harry turned to her, planting his hands on her shoulders. “Hermione, you look beautiful. This is like fourth year all over again.”

 

The sincerity of his tone teased a smile out of her. “I want you to remember that when we go into that room full of tan, blonde supermodels,” she said.

 

“You've got them all beat,” he declared.

 

“You haven't even seen them!”

 

“Don't need to,” he assured her, smiling and extending his elbow to her. “My lady?”

 

Giggling, she took his arm, letting him lead her into the ballroom. Her laughter died away as she took in the scene, her expression fading slowly into awe as her eyes trailed from the ground up to the ceiling. Orbs of light-infused crystal floated throughout the room, keeping the place lit but with a romantic sense of dimness. They brightened towards the center of the room, illuminating a dance floor, where pairs of wizards and witches were doing a stately waltz.

 

Ice sculptures lined the room, depicting dragons in flight, nesting, and caring for their young. The ice sculptures seemed to glow with their own sense of light.

 

Scattered throughout were tables of refreshments, containing displays of food that she wouldn't have dared touch if they hadn't already been picked into a little. Everything was positively stunning, and both she and Harry wandered haplessly into the crowd a bit, absolutely speechless.

 

Harry spoke first, in an undertone only she could hear. “ _Wow_.”

 

Hermione nodded dumbly in response.

 

“What do you suppose this whole thing costs?” he wondered.

 

“Talking about money is quite gauche, Potter.” Hermione turned, eyebrows shooting up as she saw Draco close the short distance between them. He was holding two glasses of champagne, which he offered to her and then (to the shock of both she _and_ her friend) to Harry. “Thank you for coming.” His eyes found hers as he said it, and she flushed a bit, remembering Narcissa's distress the last time she hadn't shown up.

 

“Thanks for having us,” Harry responded. He was a little stiff, trying to be so polite, but he was managing it. “Your mother throws a beautiful party.”

 

“Yes, she does, doesn't she?” He glanced at Harry as he responded, but soon his attention was back on Hermione. “She's been waiting for you to arrive. I think I last saw her by the Dragon-In-Nesting sculpture. Would you mind coming to speak to her?”

 

“Of course,” Hermione agreed, and Harry nodded. She froze up when they both offered her their elbow, and glanced between them.

 

Draco's eyebrow cocked up. “Potter, if you don't mind, this is my future wife. May I?”

 

Looking flustered, Harry brought his arm down. “Sure, of course. I'll just-- I think I see my boss. I'll just go say hi. You alright, Hermione, yeah?” He didn't really wait for her response, a trifle embarrassed, and scooted off.

 

Grimacing a bit, Hermione took Draco's arm. “It really does look amazing in here. I didn't even recognize the room.”

 

Draco nodded, although he seemed a bit bored by it – probably used to such transformations in his mother's parties. He glanced down at her. “Did my mother pick that one out?”

 

Hermione looked down at her dress. “Yes, actually. Gryffindor colors,” she added, shooting him a cheeky grin that only widened when his eyes narrowed a bit. “The necklace wasn't from her, though, it was a gift from my Mum.”  
  


“You're a Virgo?”

 

“Yes. My mum quite likes that sort of stuff. I don't believe in any of it, as you know, but she likes when I wear it.”

 

“She's not here. You didn't have to wear it.”

 

Hermione shrugged a bit. “I suppose I wore it to make her happy at first, and then I just got used to it.”

 

He looked at it. “It matches the Gryffindor theme, at least.”

 

“Don't blame me. Your mother insists I look horrendous in green,” she said, innocently. “And blue. And every other color there is, practically.”

 

“So you were meant to be naked. That's not so bad for the rest of us.”

 

She felt her face heat. “Malfoy!” she hissed, pinching his forearm.

 

“Ow! Quit it.”

 

“You are such a prat.” It lacked the usual heat of conviction behind the words, though.

 

He didn't respond, merely leading her through the throngs of people. She soon saw Narcissa, who was wearing a dress of sparkling – was it silver? Hermione couldn't tell, because it seemed to reflect all the light that touched it. Her hair was done up elegantly, and she looked like an ice princess.

 

But when she turned, her blue eyes lit up in a brilliant smile when she saw Hermione. “Hermione, you've come,” she said, with a note of relief.

 

There was that twinge of guilt again. “Hello, Narcissa,” she said, doing the cheek-kiss thing that Narcissa so enjoyed for greeting. “This place looks absolutely amazing. For a moment, I thought I'd Flooed to the wrong house, I didn't even recognize the place.”

 

“And you look stunning, my dear. This is my favorite of all that I bought you,” Narcissa sighed, happily, smoothing her hand down Hermione's shoulder. “It really brings out your lovely waist.”

 

Oh, so it wasn't all huge hips and thunder thighs. Narcissa actually _did_ like something about her body.

 

“Um, thank you,” she said, blushing a bit.

 

“Now, I hope you didn't eat too much before arriving, because you simply must try _everything_ on the refreshments' tables,” Narcissa said. She glanced at the people she'd just been chatting with, who were waiting politely for her return, and sighed. “I'm afraid I can't get away, but Draco, you'll be a dear and escort her around, won't you? And of course you'll dance.”

 

“Of course, Mother,” Draco promised, gravely.

 

Narcissa gave Hermione another heart-melting smile, and turned back to her other guests as Draco put a hand on her back to gently lead her away.

 

“Erm. We're not actually going to dance, are we? I'm afraid I'm not very good at it. Well, at this kind, anyway.”

 

“Which kind, the waltz?” Draco wondered.

 

“Well, any formal dancing, really,” Hermione said, laughing a bit. “Although I quite like the normal kind.”

 

He blinked at her. “ _Normal_ kind?” he asked. What in the blazes was she on about?

 

“Yes. You know. Like, modern. The kind you'd do in a nightclub.”

 

“Nightclub.”

 

“ _Yes_. Merlin, Malfoy, you really need to get out more,” she snorted. His eyes narrowed a bit, and she belatedly realized that perhaps she shouldn't have poked fun at him until he'd forgotten about the whole dancing thing.

 

His hand pressed into her back. “Well, you see, we did promise her we'd dance.”

 

“Malfoy, don't be a prat! I really can't do it,” she complained. “And you'll look like an idiot too, being stuck with me,” she added, hoping he wanted to look good more than he wanted her to look foolish.

 

“She'll demand we dance at our wedding, you know. You could use the practice. Besides,” he added, sending her a smug look. “I didn't realize there was something you _couldn't_ do. I'm very interested in seeing the one thing in all the world that Hermione Granger isn't good at.”

 

She glared up at him, and he smirked. The song came to a close, and he led her steadily – despite her protests – to the dance floor.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Loosen up,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulder a bit before returning his hand to her upper back. His other hand was in her clammy, nervous one. “Nothing betrays you like stiffness. If you move loosely, no one will notice little mistakes.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled, glancing down at their feet. She was sure to step on his at any moment.

 

He squeezed her hand. “Eyes up.”

 

She looked up at him in utter misery, and he chuckled. “You're enjoying my suffering too much.”

 

“You're quite melodramatic, Hermione, has anyone ever told you that?” He turned her, his small smile widening just a little. “Less people are looking at you than you think. They're either dancing themselves or trying to talk to one another. Tell me, were you staring at the dancers when you were talking to my mum?” At her hesitation, he answered for her: “No, you were not.”

 

She chewed her lip a bit, glad Ginny had charmed the lipstick in place, and cast a furtive glance around the room to see if what he was saying was true.

  
It wasn't. She saw people watching her, and she stumbled a bit.

 

Draco caught her up smoothly, hiding her trip in a turn. “You're doing fine. The waltz is one of the easy ones.”

 

“Now I _know_ you're just trying to bother me.”

 

“Maybe,” he admitted, another amused smile touching his lips.

 

“I'm going to kick you in the shins as soon as we stop moving.”

 

“If there was ever a plea for me to lead you through the next twenty dances, I think that was it.”

 

“Don't you dare,” she hissed through her teeth. “Besides, you told your mother you'd show me all the food.”

 

“We can _dance_ past them.”

 

“I really am going to kick you,” she threatened, narrowing her eyes at him. “I'm a horrid dancer.”

 

“I suppose you haven't noticed, then, that you've done perfectly fine the entire time you were arguing with me and not overthinking it?” he asked, in an innocent tone. He watched her blink and glance at their feet, leading her to stumble again. He pulled her into another turn. “Tsk. Didn't we learn our lesson before?”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

The dance (mercifully) ended, and the dancers all broke apart to applaud each other politely. She glared at Draco as he made a big show of bowing to her, although finally she broke into a smile and grabbed his hand, pulling him off the dance floor before he embarrassed her any further. “Impossible,” she declared, pointing at him. “I'm never dancing with you again, at our wedding or anywhere else.”

 

“Why not? You did a sight better than me,” Harry said, approaching them. He had a plate of food, and Hermione peered at it and tried to steal off of it, prompting him to lift it away from her. “Can you not be an animal for _three seconds_ and get your own food? Do you know what it's like competing with Ginny for food in my _own house_? Let me eat.”

 

“Selfish,” Hermione huffed. “And if I looked alright out there, it's only because Malfoy saved me twice from falling right on my face.”

 

“I consider the knowledge of knowing you're terrible at something to be an early birthday gift. Don't get me anything for my birthday,” Draco said, his smirk mild. “The memory of you tripping over my feet will probably hold me through Christmas, too.”

 

“If you thought that was bad, you should see her on a broom,” Harry snorted. He made an indignant noise when Hermione succeeded in grabbing an olive tartlet off his plate.

 

“I _choose_ not to go on brooms, it doesn't mean I'm bad at flying them,” she said, primly. “There's a difference.”

 

“You _choose_ not to go on brooms because you're bloody awful at flying them,” Harry corrected her, mimicking her prim tone. “I suppose that is a bit different. Thanks for pointing that out.”

 

Draco regarded her. “You still can't fly?”

 

She shot him a hounded look. “And what's so special and great about being in the air on a broom? Frankly, I don't see the appeal.” She lifted her chin, popping the rest of the tart in her mouth as she affected an air of nonchalance.

 

Harry said, in a bright tone: “Translation: She still can't fly. If you want to play a fun game, Malfoy, just take a mental note of everything she says is stupid or meaningless and you will have a laundry list of everything Hermione is bollocks at.”

 

“That's good to know.”

 

“Harry, you traitor!” Hermione complained. “You were supposed to be here for _my_ support, not to give Malfoy tips on how to bother me.”

 

“I cannot help it if ruining your day is such a fun affair, Hermione. And it's rude to keep that singular joy away from other people,” Harry insisted, pulling his plate away from her questing fingers again. “Also, consider it a revenge for stealing my food. There is _so much food_ in this room. I don't know why you insist on taking the _one food_ I don't want you to have.”

 

She snagged a piece of prosciutto and melon, and said, “Well, _I_ cannot help it if ruining your day is such a _fun affair_ , Harry.” She popped the morsel into her mouth.

 

“I'm going where it's safe,” Harry declared, using his hand to shield his plate from her and turning to disappear into the crowd.

 

Draco had been watching the exchange with some amusement, and a bit of something else in his expression she couldn't readily identify. Watching Harry greet one of the other Aurors that had been invited to the party, he turned back to her. “Should we get you some food, then?”

 

“I'm not too hungry,” she admitted.

 

He huffed a soft laugh. “You Gryffindors express friendship in a very unique manner.”

 

“I'd say it's rather the opposite,” she laughed. “We express it the same way the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws do, you know. You're in the minority, here.”

 

“So should _I_ get a plate of food that I insist on not wanting to share, so you'll finally eat?”

 

Hermione grinned. “You caught me. I could eat, I just hate having to hold the plate. For one, if you're holding a plate you can't eat and drink at the same time. For another, I never know where to put the bloody thing when I've finally cleared it.”

 

He smiled, amused in spite of himself, and held out his arm to her. She curled her hand into his elbow and let him lead her to the refreshments.

 

And, true to her word, she declined grabbing a plate herself and instead got another glass of champagne. Even truer to her word, she ate more things off his plate than he did, as though it were perfectly normal to just steal things off of other people's plates.

 

If he were being honest with himself, though, he didn't think he minded the odd way she expressed her friendship.

 


	9. An Appreciation For New Things

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Nine: An Appreciation For New Things**

 

…

 

Narcissa demanded another dance from them that night, on the basis that she 'didn't see the first one so it didn't count.'

 

That dance went a lot better than the first one, because Hermione already had three glasses of champagne in her and she was a horrid lightweight who barely drank in her everyday existence. She forgot almost entirely about being worried that she was being stared at as she argued with Draco on whether or not elves even _wanted_ equal rights.

 

As the dance ended, he started to lead her off the floor, both of them amusingly engaged in their debate.

 

“If they're all so keen on being freed, how come you had to try and trick the ones at Hogwarts into picking up clothes by accident?” he pointed out.

 

“Because they've been trained from birth to serve, and they're scared of what could be out there for them, but that doesn't mean they don't deserve it and shouldn't have that,” she insisted. She knew she was a little flushed from the alcohol, and leaning against his arm a little heavily, but she was too invested in what she was saying to care. “If they're free, what's stopping them from continuing to serve in a wizard's home while earning wages? Absolutely nothing!”

 

“An interesting viewpoint, Miss Granger.” She stopped cold, blinking as Lucius appeared on her other side, his hand extended. “Could I engage you for the next dance?”

 

She hesitated to respond, but it was too late, because Draco was passing her hand into his father's. Before she had a chance to think of a suitable protest that wasn't rude or whiny (such as, 'But I really, _really_ don't want to!'), Lucius had turned her adeptly and led her onto the floor. Before she realized it, she was in the middle of the dance floor again, her future father-in-law's other hand settling on her shoulder blade.

 

He looked down at her impassively, and she shrank back from him a bit, although she couldn't make it too far before his hand blocked her.

 

“I should warn you, I'm a very bad dancer,” she murmured. “Your son's just good enough to keep me from looking silly.”

 

“Well, as I taught him to dance myself, you should consider yourself in capable hands,” he assured her. She winced a bit at how cool and impartial his tone were; she never detected a difference between how he spoke to her and how he spoke to any stranger in the Ministry. There was no slight warmth there, just a hollow coldness that made her deeply uncomfortable.

 

The music began, and he pulled her into the first step.

 

“You seemed to enjoy dancing with my son. Is it my presence that offends you?” he finally asked, his voice cordial.

 

She grimaced a bit. “No,” she said, slowly. “I guess it's just awkward, being so very aware that you hate me. I like to imagine that most girls would act the same in this situation.”

 

He blinked, his eyebrow hitching up just barely. “Why do you think I hate you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

 

“Well, because-- no, you don't,” she said, narrowing her eyes up at him. “I'm not falling for that. You and I both know what I'm talking about. I can't believe you're trying to play dumb, you, of all people. That's not even remotely believable.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, and she scowled, because she hadn't meant to compliment him.

 

“I didn't mean it like that,” she tried.

 

“You're very expressive, Miss Granger, and – pardon me for saying it bluntly – an awful liar.”

 

She scowled again. Leaving anyone alone with Lucius Malfoy should be considered torture. By law. The man was such an insidious little snake that always found a way to wriggle right into your deepest fears and settle there like a slimy little slug.

 

“Draco told me of your theory regarding purebloods and squibs.”

 

The comment was such a non sequitor that she just blinked up at him, failing to remember what he was talking about for a moment. It hit her, and she frowned a bit. That had been _weeks_ ago. “Oh. I'd forgotten about that,” she admitted, with a faint shrug. “Anyway, those are just my thoughts on the matter. Obviously I've no real idea what was going on when they made that law.” She felt compelled to add that, wondering if Lucius was among those that believed she was somehow behind the whole marriage law.

 

“They were astute thoughts. You're very clever, Miss Granger,” he said, and she just stared at him, stunned. Was that a _compliment?_ Was she dreaming? This was probably a nightmare. Where was the evil clown that usually showed up in her nightmares?

 

She fought the urge to look around for it.

 

He watched the battle take place on her face and continued. He didn't have the patience to wait for her to come to terms with it. “I admit that my suspicions echoed yours. I also took it upon myself to investigate the Department of Records. Using the family records of all the pureblooded clans in Britain, I found no less than one hundred and sixty-three suitable wives for my son that were all three or more times removed from us.”

 

Hermione frowned up at him. “So why did you do it? Go along with it?”

 

“The reasons you told my son, Miss Granger. Another astute observation. I could have put up a fight, or arranged an uprising, but neither of those things would have achieved anything other than my swift imprisonment in Azkaban. I was given a light sentence, but the leash, as they say, is still rather tight.”

 

She fell silent, looking up at him with a faint frown. Why was he telling her all of this? It wasn't like Lucius Malfoy to just volunteer information. She was pretty sure if he'd ever invited her to tea, she wouldn't have been able to get the _time_ out of him without receiving a series of cryptic responses about the nature of time or some such nonsense. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, bluntly. “For free, no less.”

 

For the first time _ever_ , she saw a faint smile form on his face. “To see how you'd react. I had heard you were intelligent, but it's hard to take such things as true when they're being said about a Muggle-born.”

 

She bristled, frowning up at him.

 

“Of course, I knew you were easy to educate, as evidenced by your high marks at school. Higher than my son's, though he did dedicate much of his time in trying to out-achieve you.” Her eyes widened a bit at the revelation. “And I suspected you were the main factor in ensuring that capturing you and your friends in the last year of the war remained improbably difficult.”

 

“So?” she asked, softly.

 

“Those are very telling markers of above-average intellect. And now you've shown yourself capable of understanding the shifting dynamics of the social marketplace – if not perfectly, at least apt enough to paint a broad picture of it. I am not convinced that you wouldn't have made a fine Slytherin, had your blood status been a little better.”

 

Was it crazy hot in here? Because either she was about to pass out from heat stroke or Lucius _Malfoy_ had just basically told her that she was fantastic, by his own warped measuring stick, that is.

 

“Despite your blood status, which I admit is odious for me to consider,” he continued. “I do not believe I will regret my grandchildren.”

 

The music ended, and he provided her with a little bow, leaving her stunned at the edge of the dance floor as he quickly faded into the crowd. Was that the official Lucius Malfoy _seal of approval_ on her marriage into his family?

 

She made a bit of a face. Because if it was, he could have made it a little less _backhanded_.

 

“Hermione, what are you doing? You're standing in the middle of the dancefloor,” Harry stage-whispered, and she startled and quickly headed for him, letting him pull her into the crowd as her head whirled.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Wow, he really said all that?” Harry asked, eyes wide. “I think that's the Malfoy equivalent of bursting into a Disney-movie-style song about how amazing you are.”

 

She inhaled raggedly, still bewildered. “I know. Although I can't tell if I'm flattered that he finally thinks I'm not scum, or if I'm _furious_ that I had to spend so much time and energy proving to him that I'm worth the energy of informing me of my lack of scum-status.”

 

“I think you can be both,” he said, kindly. “Although it's still a bit odd for him, isn't it? You don't suppose he's up to something?”

 

Hermione paused. “I want to say yes, but I can't prove that, and I have no real reason for even thinking it except knowing that he's an arsehole.” She stole a piece of ham off of his plate, and he glared at her, as if to say, _Really?_ “So let's think a moment. What would Lucius Malfoy have to gain from letting me think that he finds me somewhat tolerable and _maybe_ not a complete dimwit?”

 

They both sat and thought for a while, stumped.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She didn't see Draco again until the end of the party, as she was heading towards the cloak room with Harry. He appeared out of nowhere, grabbing her hand. “Thank you for attending, Hermione. My dances with you were euphoric,” he said, his tone edging on dry.

 

Then he leaned down and brushed his lips across her knuckles, and Hermione went as red as her dress as people turned to stare.

 

He straightened, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, and whispered, “Until next time, then?”

 

Before she could muster a response, he was gone. She turned to look for him, but he was already striding away, not even glancing back at her. She really didn't know what to make of him, sometimes. “Let's go,” she told Harry, avoiding the curious gazes of the other invitees to the party, and hurried to the Floo.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The next morning felt so boring and mundane compared to the party. She woke up, looked around her bedroom, and heaved a sigh of relief.

 

Thank _God_ for boring and mundane!

 

She couldn't wait to do a load of laundry, read a book she'd been putting off because of work and her newly-busy social calendar, clean up the house a bit, and finally cook a simple little dinner. She had absolutely no intention of leaving the house at all, and she resolved that she was going to spend the entire day in pajamas.

 

And with garish lipstick, because Ginny's stupid charm hadn't faded yet.

 

Turning to the stereo on her bookcase, she slid in a CD – Queen's Greatest Hits, as a matter of fact. It was one of her favorite albums, and something her mother always played at top volume when cleaning the house. A tradition Hermione employed as well. It honestly didn't seem _right_ to clean the house without Freddie Mercury's voice roaring in the background.

 

 _Don't Stop Me Now_ was playing by the time she got around to mopping the kitchen floor. Unable to help herself, she slid across the floor a few times in her bare feet as she sang along to the song, dancing as stupidly as she could. It was good to look stupid every once in a while, provided you were alone in your own house.

 

Which was exactly what she was thinking about when she looked up mid-slide and saw Draco staring at her in bemusement from the kitchen doorway.

 

With a yelp, she crashed into the counter and fell to the floor, her arms pinwheeling a bit as she tried to catch herself. No luck. There she was, in her kitchen on the wet floor, wearing baggy clown pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that were getting soaked through from the soapy mopwater. With her hair flying every which way.

 

In bright red lipstick.

 

“Malfoy!” she sputtered, shoving her hair out of her face. It got in her mouth a bit, and she spat it out from between her lips. Hands hooked beneath her armpits and hauled her up to her feet, and she yelped a bit.

 

She carefully penguin-walked out of the kitchen and stumbled to her stereo, turning the music off.

 

When she turned around, he was back in the kitchen doorway again, looking at her like she'd gone mental. Looking a little worried, he asked, “Was that _modern_ dancing?”

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her face go bright red. “No,” she sighed. “What are you doing here? Can't you knock on the door like everyone else?”

 

“I would have, if I'd known you were wearing _that_. Would you have used the opportunity to change?”

 

She looked down at her baggy clothes and scowled, fisting her hands on her hips. “I wasn't expecting company today.” She shifted uncomfortably, aware of the huge wet spot on the arse of her pants. “I was cleaning. There's no point in getting all dressed up to clean.”

 

“And that?” He pointed at his own lips.

 

Hermione cursed, rubbing furiously at her lips. “Ginny's stupid charm won't fade. She had to charm my lipstick on because I kept licking it off,” she explained. Then she groaned. “Why am I explaining this to you? This is my day of Hermione, I just want to clean and do laundry and read a book.”

 

He gave her a pitying look. “That's what you do on your 'day of Hermione'? Clean and do laundry? While listening to someone... scream and wail?”

 

Her embarrassment was quickly morphing into irritation. “Did you come here for a reason, Malfoy?”

 

“I wanted to see if you wanted to get lunch,” he said, looking around the flat a bit. “Is your magic intermittent, or something? Why are cleaning the Muggle way?”

 

“Because I like it, alright?”

 

He didn't look like he believed her, but shrugged. “Lunch, then?”

 

“No! I'm busy.”

 

“If you go to lunch with me, I'll counter-charm your lips.”

 

“There's no counter-charm for this, I already looked,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

 

“Allow me to rephrase: I'll charm them again, but to look like your normal lips,” he said, laughing softly. “Acceptable?”

 

She considered it. “Fine, but you better do it right and not give me someone else's lips.”

 

“I think I know what your lips look like, Hermione.”

 

Grumbling, she headed for her room. “Let me change, then.” She heard suppressed mirth behind her, and belatedly recalled that she'd fallen arse-first into mopwater. She hurried into her bedroom and slammed the door, mortified.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Let me choose the place, today,” she said, as she returned to the living room in jeans and a t-shirt. Draco had cleaned up the mop water and her kitchen floor was dry, and she blinked at it, wondering if she should thank him for the considerate gesture. He was pretending not to notice, so she decided not to. “I know a great place in Soho.”

 

He frowned. “Soho? What is that?”

 

“It's in London,” she said, surprised.

 

His expression shuttered. “Muggle London,” he guessed, flatly.

 

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “There's a lot more options out there. It's a bigger place than Wizarding Britain.” Sensing his hesitance, she closed the distance between them. “Please? You share all the places you like to go with me, and now I want to share a place I really like with you.”

 

His jaw tensed, and she stopped wheedling, chewing on her lip as she waited. She knew him well enough by now to know that the more she pushed, the more stubborn he'd become.

 

“We can't use magic out there,” he reminded her.

 

“Right,” she agreed. “We'll bring our wands along just in case, but no, we're supposed to act like Muggles.”

 

“I don't know how to act like a Muggle,” he said, frowning.

 

She squinted at him, remembering that he seemed to truly believe that Muggles were somewhere between wizards and apes on the evolutionary scale. “How you act is fine. No one will notice.”

 

His disbelief at that was evident, and he snorted a bit. Looking at her, his stubborn expression softened a bit, and he finally shrugged.

  
Brightening, Hermione said, “Thank you. I'm so excited,” she said, grabbing her coat and a scarf. “I think the only thing that will stand out for you is your clothes. They're fine, and Muggles used to wear things like that,” she said, indicating the suit beneath his robe. “But for Muggles, those were the height of fashion in the early nineteen-hundreds.” At his blank stare, she said, softly, like he was an easily-startled deer: “Do you mind if I transfigure them into something a little less obvious?”

 

His hesitation at this was far more pronounced, but he sighed through his nose and indicated with his hands at her to go ahead.

 

Trying not to look too delighted for fear of spooking him, she quickly transfigured his robe into a blazer, his pants into jeans, and his shirt into a more casual button-up. The shoes she transfigured into plain black loafers. “There. You look positively Muggle.” He shot her a wary, disgusted look at her comment, and she laughed, grabbing his arm to pull him towards the door. “Come on, it'll be fun. Where's your sense of adventure?”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He earned a lot of stares on his way to the Leaky Cauldron, and ignored them steadfastly, drawing his haughtiness against him like armor as he strode proudly down the street in his transfigured clothing. Hermione supposed they'd be reading about this in the _Prophet_ the next morning – some tripe about how she was Muggle-izing her pureblood fiance already, or something similarly stupid. She was glad this was a normal outfit for her, and doubly glad that he'd charmed her lips to be their normal shade before they'd started walking.

 

They reached the Leaky Cauldron, and his steps slowed, but she tugged him out with a pleading look, and he relented.

 

All around them, a sea of Muggles. Draco honestly hadn't realized there were _this many_. They must breed like rats. He looked around, stiffening a bit. Inspecting the other Muggles, he realized he did look like them, and was glad that Hermione hadn't capitalized on what would have been a grand opportunity to embarrass him. Then again, she didn't really seem to be that sort of person, but old habits of suspicion were hard to break.

 

His hands were stuffed into his blazer pockets, and he felt a hand curl around the crook of his elbow, drawing his attention to the owner of it. Hermione smiled up at him reassuringly, and he relaxed slightly, giving her the faintest nod.

 

She led him down the pavement, which seemed vastly overpopulated, and he watched with amazement as sleek black pods roared down the middle of the two streams of people.

 

Following his gaze, Hermione murmured, “Those are cars. It's how Muggles get around when they have a lot of distance to cover, and walking would be too slow.”

 

“They're in those?”

 

She chuckled. “Yes, they drive them. They determine how fast they go, when to stop, and what direction they're going in. It's like a carriage, but without the horse.”

 

“How do they work?”

 

Most of the walk to the restaurant was full of Hermione explaining the modern combustion engine, complete with the whole history of cars and their engines, where they got gasoline from, and whatnot. He was surprised when he asked the occasional question that she didn't know the answer to, watching with amazement as she just shrugged the question off with a simple, “I don't know very much about cars, to be honest with you.”

 

“I thought you knew everything about everything,” he said, in a dry tone.

 

“Cars aren't very interesting. I learned all I could about magic because it wasn't boring and mundane like how I felt Muggle life was. But there are people who learn a lot about cars and dedicate their whole lives to knowing them better than anyone.”

 

“And you're not interested in knowing about that.”

 

“No, cars are rather boring,” she said, dismissively.

 

He realized that the Muggle world must be a large place, indeed, if it had things in it that Hermione Granger didn't make it her business to know everything about. Whereas she'd soaked up as much of the magical world as she could, and basically learned about _a lot_ of it in the thirteen years she'd been a part of it. “What else don't you know anything about?”

 

She looked up at him, surprised by the question. “Um, well, I suppose I don't really know. There's a lot of things I'm sure I don't even know exist, yet, so all of those things, of course. That's a hard question to answer.”

 

He looked around at the people and the cars, and his eyes lingered on a display of televisions they passed. “I thought Muggle photographs didn't move.”

 

She glanced in the window, and then away again, utterly disinterested in the ten screens displaying the current football game. “Oh, that's not a photograph, it's a telly,” she explained. “You put it in your house, and then you can watch shows or sports games, the news... things like that. It's how Muggles get a lot of their information, televised news.”

 

Draco's gaze went a little blank, and she realized that everything she'd just said might as well have been gibberish. She tried to think of a reference.

 

“Think of it like... like maybe a Pensieve?” she tried. “Except you get to watch it on a screen, instead of being inside of the memory.”

 

“They show memories?”

 

“No,” she said, frowning. “They show... well, shows, and games, and stuff. Like, some are shows that tell stories, like plays.” At his nod, she relaxed a bit. “And some of the shows are serious, or they're funny. Usually they're either half an hour or an hour long per episode, and to watch the whole story, you have to see all the episodes as they air every week.”

 

He frowned. “So you have to wait a whole week to find out what happens next in the story?”

 

She giggled a bit. “Yes, and it can be very vexing for those of us whom are too impatient to wait. And sometimes it's just news, where you can see things that are happening elsewhere in the world, and people explain to you what's going on.”

 

Draco fell silent, digesting all of this, and Hermione pulled him to a slow stop and said, “This is it.”

 

The establishment was a small little place that sold sandwiches and soups, for the most part. It was family-owned, and to be honest, she was relieved it was still even here. She hadn't been there in a few years, and family-run businesses didn't always make it in the hustle and bustle of London.

 

At least inside, Draco seemed more at ease. Whether in the wizarding world or the Muggle one, a restaurant was a restaurant and the premise remained largely the same.

 

He started to sit, and she kept ahold of his arm. “No, we order first, at the counter,” she said, stifling a smile at the indignant look on his face. “Some Muggle places are like that. You order at the counter, and then you sit down and they bring you the food you ordered.”

 

“Why can't the server just take our order?”

 

“Because they don't have servers like that in places like this,” she said, quietly. “It's just a different kind of restaurant.”

 

He looked sourly around, like the owners had personally offended him by not providing what he considered adequate staffing, and finally huffed and stuffed his hands back into his pockets as he entered the line to wait to order.

 

She chewed on her lip, watching him.

 

He caught her and glowered a bit. “What?” he demanded, sullenly.

 

She couldn't stop the smile she'd been trying to hide just then. “You're being a brat, you know,” she said, sounding delighted.

 

Draco scowled. “I am not.”

 

“You are. And usually it's really annoying, but right now? It's kind of adorable,” she said, giggling softly as she watched the outrage form on his face. He cast her a haughty look, making sure to use his height to full effect so he could look down his nose at her, and she backhanded his shoulder softly. “Oh, stop. You're only making yourself look cuter by the second.”

 

He glared holes into the back of the head of the poor Muggle in front of them, ignoring Hermione as she shook with repressed laughter. It was hard to do, considering that she had a death-grip on the crook of his elbow so she didn't _fall over_ in her mirth.

 

By the time they reached the head of the line, he was in a full-on sulk, which only seemed to brighten her disposition more and more. He refused to order (such a brat!), so she ordered a chicken sandwich and a cup of French onion soup on his behalf. After picking up the little table tent with their number, she lead him to a table and sat him down, still grinning at his stormy expression.

 

“Come on, Malfoy,” she cajoled. “What can I do to cheer you up?” Impulsively, she reached across the table to poke his nose. He startled fantastically, blinking at her in utter shock. Realizing that perhaps she'd maybe been a bit too familiar, she reddened, letting her hand drop. “Sorry, I just-- Just a habit.”

 

A habit she had with _Harry_. And this wasn't Harry, as she often felt the need to remind herself. _Harry_ was the one who always laughed (even in his worst moods) when she poked his nose.

 

She shifted uncomfortably, wincing a bit.

 

Surprisingly, though, Draco didn't seem upset. Shocked and a little confused, sure, but when those emotions passed he actually seemed to be in a better mood than before. “It's alright. I just wasn't expecting it,” he murmured.

 

“Did it cheer you up?” she asked, hopefully.

 

“No,” he said, archly, and she wrinkled her nose a bit. “I am _not_ cheered up. I'm a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't stand in line.”

 

“In the Muggle world, they do. Nobody knows what Malfoy is, out here,” she pointed out.

 

He grumbled a bit, slouching in his chair slightly. It was the first time she'd ever seen him with less than absolutely perfect posture, even in school.

 

She placed her arms on the table and leaned across. “Come on. What would cheer you up? What do you like to do?”

 

His sullen expression lessened as he thought, and his eyes flicked up to her. “You're saying you'd do whatever I want, so long as it cheered me up?”

 

Hermione hesitated. That was a big promise. “As long as--”

 

“There's always stipulations with you,” he complained. “Do you want to cheer me up, or not?”

 

She closed her mouth, regarding him suspiciously. Finally, she said, “I _do_ feel bad, so yes, I do want to cheer you up--” She'd been about to add a _but_ , wanting to at least put a no-kissing or no-sexual-hanky-panky clause in there, but then he'd lit up like a Christmas tree, a broad smile forming on his face, and she didn't.

 

She supposed if he tried to go that route, she'd just refuse, anyway, so no harm done.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Alright. Definitely harm done.

 

 _Lots_ of harm done.

 

The rest of lunch had gone fantastically, and he was in a positively bubbly mood as they finished eating. He asked more questions about the most mundane facets of Muggle life as they walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, which she was more than happy to answer. The very second they'd stepped back into the Wizarding world, he'd said, “Get ready,” and grabbed her arm and his wand.

 

Then she was being Side-Along Apparated. When she landed it was on a lawn, which she dimly recognized as belonging to Malfoy Manor.

 

Stumbling into him, she quickly righted herself and turned on her heel. “What are we doing?” she wondered, and he'd grinned and turned, jogging – yes, Draco Malfoy was _jogging_ – to stately shed in the shadow of the house. Of course he didn't answer her.

 

Huffing a bit, Hermione turned to survey the lawn. It was past the gardens, so she'd never really had a chance to look at it, aside from being led past it when Narcissa had insisted on showing her the gazebo she simply _must_ get married at.

 

It looked kind of like a croquet lawn. It was perfectly manicured (of course).

 

As she was looking, Draco spoke from behind her. “Alright. Ready?”

 

She turned, and to her endless horror, saw a _broom_ in his hand. Gasping, she took a huge step back. “What is that for!” she demanded, although she had a sinking feeling she already knew.

 

He grinned, one eye squinted against the sun, and for a second her heart stopped a little. For a moment – just the tiniest, _teensiest_ moment – she'd thought to herself: _Malfoy's actually pretty fit._ Horrified by both herself and what he was intending to do, she just stared at him in dismay as he said, “I'm always cheered up by flying, and I want to fly.”

 

“I'll watch you, then.”

 

“No, I want to fly _with_ you,” he corrected. “You said you'd do anything.”

 

“I didn't say I'd put myself on a _death-stick_ and plummet to my untimely death!” She took another step back, crossing her arms protectively in front of herself. “I thought you'd want to do something like, like, make me read anti-Muggle pamphlets or something.”

 

“What are pamphlets?”

 

“I'm not getting on!” she said, her voice growing shrill with panic. “You saw me in flying class, I can't even make them work properly.”

 

“Hermione.” His drawling, amused voice broke through her panic a bit, and she looked at him. He was smiling. “Come here. You can sit with me. I'll show you how great it is up there.”

 

“I've flown with people before and it's _not_ great up there,” she insisted.

 

“You promised,” he reminded her.

 

She stayed where she was, crossing her arms harder as he extended a hand to her, waiting patiently. Finally, she edged towards him, almost wishing he _had_ asked for a kiss or something else that she'd been so sure an hour ago she'd refuse to do. She looked distrustfully at the broom, and then glared at him when he started to laugh.

 

“You can sit in front of me,” he said, softly. “That way I'll make sure you don't fall.”

 

“I don't want to,” she said, hating the way her voice trembled.

 

“I thought it was you that said you shouldn't run away from your fears?” He looked amused and smug again. “Actually, I believe what you said was that the worst thing you could do was think you were safe from them and have them suddenly attack. Well, you thought you were safe, and here I am, demanding a broom ride to cheer me up. Come on.” He grasped her elbow – gently, but firmly – and steered her towards the broom as he put it between his legs.

 

Feeling her breath grow a little short, she edged towards it and then threw her leg over it before she could give herself a chance to think anymore. His arms came down around her, grasping the broom handle, effectively caging her in.

 

She grabbed the handle, too, right between her legs, and he grabbed her wrist and gently pulled it up the shaft of the broom. “You'll want to be holding right here. It'll make you feel more secure,” he murmured in her ear, and with a start she realized how _close_ they were. With him leaning over her, pressing his chest into her back, this was more physical contact than she'd ever had with him at once. She leaned forward a bit to put more distance between them--

 

And he kicked off, and they went rocketing upwards.

 

Hermione _screamed_ like she was being murdered, and threw herself back against him, molding herself against his body in a blind panic. His laughter echoed against her ear before the rushing wind snatched it away, and her scream died to a terrified whimper as she clamped her eyes shut.

 

They slowed, and she risked opening her eyes. Looking down made her want to throw up. She had no idea how high they were, but she knew that if she dropped from this height, she would die on impact.

 

“Oh, my God, Malfoy, I can't,” she gibbered, pressing into the solidness of his form frantically. Her thighs were clamped around the broom like a vise, and her knuckles had gone white with the force of gripping it.

 

“Relax, Hermione,” he chuckled into her ear again. “You're a witch. Where's your wand?”

 

“My pocket,” she whispered, in utter agony.

 

“And what are you going to do if you fall down?”

 

“ _Die_?”

 

“You're going to cast a bubble charm and bounce harmlessly on the lawn,” he corrected, laughing again.

 

“Don't you bloody laugh,” she said. “I am going to kill you. I'm going to rip you into a thousand pieces, I swear to Gooo--” Her threat faded into another scream as he jetted forward, running lazy figure-eights through the sky. “Kill you, kill you, kill you,” she was repeating as they slowed again.

 

“I can't help laughing, Hermione. I love flying, and it makes me jubilant,” he said, having switched to her other ear. “Are your eyes closed?”

 

“ _Of course they're bloody closed!_ ”

 

“Open them, I want you to see.”

 

She did, and whimpered in terror again, pressing back into him more firmly. They were even higher than before.

 

“Isn't it beautiful?” he prompted.

 

“What? Isn't what beautiful?”

 

“The _view,_ Hermione, what else?”

 

“Do you really think I care about the _scenery_ right now?” she demanded, her voice at such a shrill pitch that it probably set off every dog in his father's kennel.

 

Wincing, Draco said, “You sound like a banshee. Calm down, will you, I'm not going to let you fall.” He started coasting forward at an easy pace, gradually speeding up as they slanted down towards the ground again.

 

“If I make it to the ground in one piece, I'm going to hex you a _thousand_ times, until you're more hex than man,” she swore.

 

He sped up, and she shrieked again, her voice momentarily disappearing as he did a loop-de-loop, turning them upside down for a second. He laughed as she continued to curse him and his name and his hair and his big ears, and did another one, but held them upside down this time.

 

She fell silent, and slipped on the broom a little before she wrapped her legs around it like a couple of snakes. “ _Draco_ ,” she screamed, scrambling to get a better grip. Above her, what seemed like kilometers away, the ground. Beneath her, a flimsy little _stick_ that she was supposed to trust with her life. “Draco, Draco, please!”

 

He flipped them right-side up again, and she shook with terror, nearly hyperventilating. “What did you call me?” he asked, surprised.

 

“What?” she demanded, breathlessly. She couldn't even _remember_ what she called him in that moment; her mind had gone blank with fear. All she could remember was the utter certainty that she was about to die. “What, what are you talking about?”

 

He pulled one of his hands off the broom, reaching up with the intent to pat her shoulder in hopes it would calm her.

 

Instead, she wrapped her arms around his, pinning his arm to her chest, obviously trusting it to be a better anchor than the broom beneath her. His palm was flush against her collarbone, and he felt her heart pounding a thousand beats a minute as she struggled to breathe. He clasped his arm more firmly against her, pinning her to his chest, and felt her breathing come a little easier for it.

 

He tucked his chin against her shoulder, feeling her curls press into his cheek. Her hair was a lot softer than he'd imagined it would be. He'd always assumed it would be ratty and coarse.

 

“You called me 'Draco,'” he told her.

 

“Is that what you're thinking about, right now?” she gasped, incredulous. “That I called you Draco?”

  
Actually, he was sort of thinking about the breasts pressing into his arm, but yes, also that other thing. “You've never called me that before. You refused, if I recall. Even though I've called you Hermione for a while, now.”

 

She collapsed her head back, against his shoulder, unable to _believe_ that he was thinking about something so stupid after she'd almost _died_.

 

“I liked it better than 'Malfoy.'”

 

The whole situation was so ridiculous that she started to laugh. She could feel hysteria building, threatening to spill out if she didn't get it under control. “You're out of your mind, Draco,” she said, through a fit of hysterical giggles. “Oh, my God, I don't want to die up here.”

 

“I told you, I wouldn't let you fall.” They sat like that for a few more minutes, her still clinging to his arm like it was the only thing protecting her from certain death.

 

When she was calm, and he felt her heartbeat slow down to – well, not quite normal, but at an acceptable level – he began to turn them towards the ground, steering with the one hand that she hadn't seen fit to kidnap. As soon as they were within a few feet of the lawn, she collapsed back against him, and he felt her breathe a huge sigh of relief. Their feet dangled just inches from the ground, which apparently was an alright height with her.

 

A moment later, she must have realized where exactly his arm was, because she let it go, and he saw the side of her face turn a brilliant red. He dropped his hand back to the broom, coasting them along the ground with their feet skimming the tips of the grass. “Better?”

 

She inhaled and exhaled shakily. “Much.”

 


	10. Bittersweet Things

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Ten: Bittersweet Things**

 

…

 

He made her stay on the broom for a full half-hour, although he didn't go nearly as high as he did before. For a while, he kept them just above the ground, their shoes skimming the grass, until she finally seemed to actually _relax_ on the broom. Of course, when he went a smidge higher – no more than a foot – she tensed right back up again.

 

“Why are you scared of brooms?” he wondered.

 

“I'm not,” she sighed. “I'm scared of _heights_. I don't like rollercoasters much, either.”

 

He was quiet a moment. “What's a rollercoaster?”

 

“ _Nothing_ ,” she said, so emphatically that he knew immediately that he had to find out what it was and make her endure the nearest one. “Absolutely nothing. I just made that word up.”

 

“You know, you're only making me more curious,” he drawled.

 

“There is _no such thing_ as rollercoasters,” she said, firmly.

 

He turned as they reached the edge of the lawn, still hovering just two feet off the ground. “Has anyone ever told you that you're an absolutely awful liar? I don't think I've ever seen such pitiful acting.”

 

She huffed, snorting a bit. “Your father said that during our dance.”

 

“You lied to my father?” he asked, leaning into her to murmur in her ear. “Naughty girl. What about?” He felt her shiver a bit and smiled.

 

“Nothing important,” Hermione squeaked, shrugging her shoulder to force him back. He relented, laughing softly as he edged the broom up another couple of inches. “I told him not to play dumb because it wasn't believable, and he said _Thank you_ and I tried to backpedal on it. I didn't mean it as a compliment.”

 

“Yes, calling a man smart, the _ultimate_ insult.” She let go of the broom to jab her elbow into his ribs, making him grunt on the impact. “I guess you must be feeling pretty comfortable,” he wheezed. “Should we go up?”

 

“No!” she ordered, grabbing his hands and trying to force him to steer the broom back down. “I think I've been tormented enough for laughing at you earlier.”

 

“Obviously not, since you're still being so bossy.”

 

She half-turned on the broom to look at him over her shoulder, a pretty little pout on her face. Not that he'd call her expression that to her face, because he imagined that she thought she was looking fierce and commanding. “You better let me down on the ground where I belong, before you start finding my elbows in all your soft spots.”

 

“Threats,” Draco exclaimed, as though wounded. “I can't believe you'd threaten your _fiance_.”

 

She turned a bit more, squaring her shoulder to his chest, and repeated, “Down!”

 

“What if I don't want to let you down?” he wondered. “What if I doom you to being trapped on a broom _forever_?”

 

“Draco!”

 

Impulsively, he said, “Maybe I'd be willing to do it if you gave me something for it.” The next protest died on her lips, and she looked up at him through her eyelashes, eyebrows drawn together in a frown that made a little line form between them.

 

“Like what?”

 

He shrugged, and she scowled at him. He took pity on her, grinning briefly and chewing on his lower lip as he glanced at the Manor. Then he looked back at her, the grin fading a bit. “Kiss me.”

 

“What!” she gasped, glancing back at the Manor herself. Why they were both so afraid of his parents seeing, she wasn't sure.

 

“Consider it practice,” he tried. “It's going to be an awful long ten years without kissing.”

 

They were low enough to the ground that she swung a leg over the broom, sitting on it side-saddle. She could just hop off, really, slide right under his arm. But instead she was using it to better face him, adopting a whisper. “I can't do that here! What if your dad sees us?”

 

Draco also adopted a whisper, leaning in as if to tell her a secret. “He can't hear you, even if you talk at normal volume. He's quite far away.”

 

She laughed, blushing, and shoved at his chest. “I can't do it in front of all these windows,” she insisted. “I feel watched.”

 

“But you would do it, if there weren't all those windows?” he pressed.

 

Her eyes darted between him and the house, and she chewed on her lip a bit. “Maybe,” she admitted. It was the most she would _ever_ admit.

 

Draco nodded, seriously, and then took off.

 

She was thrown into him, and squealed, wrapping her arms around him tightly as he shot away from the manor and through the trees. “Draco, I'm going to _kill_ you,” she screamed into his chest, and felt him shake with laughter in reply. They finally came to a stop, and she cautiously opened her eyes.

 

Three feet below them, the inky blue lake. She glanced around and saw the gazebo resting on the shoreline.

 

“I could have fallen off!” she protested, belatedly.

 

“I removed the windows,” he said, grandly, spreading his hands to gesture at the trees surrounding them. “Do you feel watched, now?”

 

She was trying hard not to smile. “No. But now I'm mad at you.”

 

“If you don't kiss me, I may dump you into the lake.”

 

“I'll drag you in with me.”

 

“I'm willing to take that chance.” She glared at him, pressing her lips together. He could see that she wanted to smile, and grinned in return, waiting.

 

Finally, she softened, still chewing on her lower lip – a nervous habit, he knew. She did it when she was thinking. Which was precisely what he wished she wouldn't do at the moment. She shifted on the broom a little, facing him better, and leaned towards him, moving slowly, nervous and a little shy.

 

He waited, not wanting to spook her.

 

Finally, she tilted her head up and closed the last inch between them, her lips brushing over his, her eyes already closed. His eyes followed suit as he leaned into it a little. The kiss was chaste, close-mouthed, but he found that he didn't really mind it. Coming from who it was coming from, it was a much bigger feat than any other kiss he'd ever managed to get.

 

The first thing Hermione thought was that his lips were a lot softer than she'd thought they would be. For some reason, she'd just thought they would be... firmer.

 

Her second thought was that she was more grateful than he'd ever know that he didn't lean in and push his tongue into her mouth. Not that she was a prude – certainly she'd had her brains snogged out by Ron plenty – but considering that it was Draco Malfoy, she knew she couldn't push herself to move too quickly. There were too many psychological barriers in the way that would have to be carefully dismantled.

 

She wasn't sure how long it had been when she finally leaned back. She watched his eyes open, and half-expected on some visceral level that he'd make a rude remark.

 

But he just smiled, kind of stupidly, his expression of surprised, repressed happiness making him look strangely unguarded. She wondered if she'd ever seen him look this open before. No, she decided. Not ever. He was always playing a part of some sort.

 

But she didn't think he was playing any now.

 

Slowly, he turned the broom around, moving at an achingly slow pace, ever mindful of her side-saddle position on it. They headed back to the Manor, both of them wearing strange, shy smiles as they landed on the lawn and got off the broom.

 

“So. I suppose I should-- I guess--” Hermione started, feeling a little nervous.

 

“You could stay for dinner,” he offered, instead. Her eyes darted to the house, and he realized she would probably say no; she didn't often consent to going in there, and when she did, it was usually with a buffer of several other people.

 

She shocked him by saying, “Alright.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He led her in, noticing that she looked very noticeably windswept, something that might send his mother into fits. “Here, before we meet my mum, let me just...” He tried to fix her hair a bit, and Hermione blinked up at him, shocked by the odd display of tenderness.

 

“I just realized, we're both in Muggle clothes,” she murmured.

 

He glanced down at himself, and then at her, and grimaced. “Mother's very particular about how we're supposed to dress at dinner. Even when it's just us.”

 

“Maybe I should just--” She took a half-step back.

 

“No,” he said, grabbing her elbow. “No, you should stay.” He looked almost-- was it vulnerable? Was that the word she was thinking of? Perhaps plaintive. Unsure. Or a cocktail of all of those things. “I'll get my mother, she'll understand. She may have something you can borrow.”

 

“She's a lot taller than me,” Hermione reminded him, eyebrows raising. “I don't think any of her things would fit.”

 

“Magic, remember?”

 

“Oh. Okay, should I wait here?” She looked around the small room. It kind of looked like a study, but it was also a porch of some kind. His hand folded around hers, warm, and she snapped her head around to look at him.

 

He nodded his head towards the door, and she followed him.

 

He led her through the house, although apparently with far less care than Narcissa did. Because two rooms in, he was leading her right through the drawing room.

 

Hermione's steps stuttered a bit as she recognized the room, and her hand tightened around his.

 

Draco turned to look at her, frowning, and followed her gaze up to the chandelier. Apparently it had been replaced. He paled a bit when he realized, shooting her a worried look and quickly walking her backwards and right out of the room again. He closed the door behind him, looking momentarily speechless. “Hermione, I-- I forgot,” he said, and flinched when he realized how awful that sounded.

 

She was breathing carefully, trying to remain calm. “Maybe this isn't a good night.”

 

“No, it's a good night.”

 

“I shouldn't be out late, anyway, I have to work tomorrow.”

 

“Hermione.”

 

She pulled her hand out of his. “I want to go home,” she said, more firmly.

 

His shoulders dropped a bit as a defeated expression edged onto his face. But he just nodded, silent, and turned to lead her back through the house towards the Floo. “It's still connected to your flat,” he murmured, passing her a handful of the powder.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered. For a second she hesitated, wanting to say something reassuring.

 

But why should she be the one to reassure _him_?

 

She threw the powder in, and Flooed home, realizing as she stepped into her living room that she hadn't even said 'goodbye.'

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione found she was too rattled to stay at home, and after spending a couple of hours pacing around restlessly, she found herself in the Floo again. This time, though, she ended up at 12 Grimmauld Place.

 

Harry was sitting in the chair, and he jumped half a foot in the air when she suddenly stepped out of the fire. “Jesus!” Settling back, he pressed his hand to his chest as if to calm his racing heart. “Merlin, Hermione, haven't you ever heard of calling ahead?”

 

“Sorry,” she whispered.

 

He frowned, setting the _Prophet_ aside and pushing to his feet. “What's wrong? Did something happen? Are you okay?”

 

She nodded, feeling his hands land on her shoulders as he looked at her face. “Yes. Yes, I'm fine, I just... needed to not be alone. Is Ginny here? What time is it?”

 

“No, she's staying at a hotel tonight with the rest of the team,” he said. “It's nearly nine, I already put the boys to bed. Did you eat dinner?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Alright, well, I have leftover pasta. Come on.” He hauled her into the kitchen and pushed her into the chair, grabbing a tupperware from the fridge and popping it in the microwave. Then he put the kettle on, and she smiled a bit, glad she wasn't the _only_ person around that liked doing things the Muggle way sometimes.

 

Finally, he turned to her. “Alright, what happened?”

 

“I kissed Malfoy.” She wasn't sure why that was the first thing out of her mouth. It wasn't even the part of the day that _upset_ her.

 

He considered her. “Is that why you look like you're going to cry?” he asked, uncertainly.

 

“No,” she whispered, and then felt her eyes tear up. Mortified, she rubbed at them, sniffling and trying to keep herself under control. “No, it was a nice kiss. I wanted to do it. Ginny would be cackling herself to death right now if she were here.”

 

“I didn't realize you were so, uh, partial to him these days,” Harry murmured.

 

She shrugged. “I guess I didn't, either. But he asked me for a kiss, and I realized I didn't really find the thought as disgusting as I figured I would.”

 

He relaxed a smidge. “Well, at least he asked. That was--”

 

“Strangely nice of him,” she finished, a little amazed. “And really unexpected.” Of course, he'd been a bit of a brat about it by threatening to not let her off his broom, but they'd both known she could have easily gotten off if she'd really wanted to. And they both knew if she'd reacted negatively, he wouldn't have still tried to get her to kiss him.

 

Harry nodded. “Well, if that's not what's got you upset, what is?”

 

“I saw the drawing room. He asked me to stay for dinner, and it felt kind of right to say yes after we kissed like that, and he was leading me to the dining room and led me right through it,” she whispered. “They replaced the chandelier.” She had no idea why she thought it was a good idea to add that part.

 

Her friend leaned back in the chair, frowning a bit. “Well, that was certainly thoughtless of him.”

 

“He said he _forgot_ ,” she said, her tone dry, a little mocking.

 

Harry grimaced. The microwave beeped, and he got up to collect her dinner, using a fork to stir it up in hopes of actually distributing some of the heat around. He put it in front of her, and she picked up the fork glumly and prodded at it. “Hermione, please eat.”

 

She forced a bite into her mouth to shut him up.

 

“So what happened after that?”

 

“Nothing. I said I wanted to go home and then I left.”

 

“He didn't try and talk to you about it or anything?” Harry pressed, his inner Auror coming out a bit in his tone.

 

Hermione shook her head. “No, he looked guilty and just led me straight to the Floo. He said he _forgot_ , Harry. He forgot that I'd been tortured by his crazy aunt in there.” Her voice trembled, and she masked it by shoving more pasta into her mouth.

 

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” Harry said, softly. He swallowed. “You know, I used to have nightmares about that night? I still do, sometimes.”

 

She glanced up at him, frowning a bit.

 

He smiled sadly in response. “I'm trapped somewhere, usually a dark place but not necessarily the cellar. And I can just hear you screaming, and screaming, and screaming. And I'm practically throwing myself against the walls to try and get to you, but I can't get out and you just keep screaming.” His sad smile faded. “And then suddenly you stop screaming, and I think, _God, I wish she'd keep screaming_. Because the silence is so much worse than the screaming.”

 

Hermione's inhale was ragged, and in the next moment she was up, wrapping her arms around Harry's neck and pressing into him, falling into his lap where he sat. She sniffled, her breath hitching as she pressed her face into his chest, his arms like a steel band around her back.

 

“I thought I'd lost you that night to that crazy bitch,” he whispered. “If Molly hadn't killed her, I'd have done it for sure. Even if the battle was over, I would have just... in cold blood. I would have murdered her.”

 

Her voice was small as she clung to him, muffled by his shirt. “I'm glad you didn't.”

 

His arms tightened around her. The kettle began to whistle, but neither of them got up to grab it.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She did end up going home that night after eating and having a cup of chamomile tea. Harry had offered to let her stay, but she felt bad leaning on his kindness so often lately, and besides that, she didn't want to leave Crookshanks all alone at her flat.

 

So she came home, showered, and fell into bed facefirst. To her surprise and relief, she was so tired from crying earlier that she fell right asleep.

 

If she had any dreams, she didn't remember them.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She debated long and hard about going to her and Draco's cafe. She hadn't missed a morning with him there yet, and she knew if she didn't go, he'd just sit there waiting for her. She wasn't sure if she could handle the guilt of doing that.

 

On the other hand, she really, really didn't want to face him. At all. She didn't want to talk about it, she didn't want to hear his apologies.

 

She just wanted a day away.

 

It was okay to want that, wasn't it? Just one day without Draco. She'd seen him every day for weeks, and now she just wanted one day without him, and that was fine. That wasn't cowardly, it was just her taking the breathing space she needed. He could probably use the space, too.

 

So she didn't meet him, and instead Flooed straight to work at her usual time.

 

She'd only been there for half an hour before he found her cubicle. She sensed him before she saw him, sensed the accusing stare boring into her back. Tensing, she looked over her shoulder at him.

 

He stood stiffly at the entrance to her cubicle. “Can we talk?”

 

“I'm working.”

 

“It's important,” he insisted.

 

“If it's not that my flat is on fire or someone is dead, it can wait until after work,” she snapped. “Is someone dead? Is my flat on fire?”

 

He stared at her, frowning as he realized that he hadn't seen this particular Hermione in weeks. Months, almost; it was nearly May. “Hermione, don't do this,” he said, softly.

 

“Malfoy--” He flinched at the surname, and she felt bad for a moment. “I'm at work. You need to leave me alone and let me do my work, okay? It's important to me.”

 

“What I want to talk about is important to _me_.”

 

“So, what, I'm supposed to drop everything because you want to talk about something you care about? Just put my career and my life on pause so you can settle yourself, is that it?” she demanded, whirling around in her chair. His eyes widened a bit at her rant. “You are such a spoiled little _brat_ , Malfoy. The world doesn't start and stop when you tell it to, and neither do _I_. I'm telling you to _wait_.”

 

Draco stared at her, speechless, and then his mouth snapped shut with an audible _click_. “Fine.” Stepping back and out of her cubicle, he turned on his heel, and was gone.

 


	11. Amends

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Eleven: Amends**

 

…

 

After the confrontation, Hermione found she could barely focus on her work. She stared at a log of the last meeting with the trolls' representatives without really reading it. It wasn't fair. Draco was the one who was wrong, wasn't he?

 

So why did she feel so _guilty_ about yelling at him?

 

She was tugging her hair near out of her head with frustration at herself for not being able to concentrate, and when the lunch hour rolled around she shot out of her chair and made a bee-line for her department's door. Nobody said anything as she left, probably assuming it was her weekly lunch with Draco. Good thing, too, because she was trying to get through the day without talking to anyone, afraid if anyone conversed with her, they'd somehow sense how pitifully unproductive she'd been.

 

Walking briskly, Hermione was outside and striding towards Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Damn Ron for quitting the Auror department to help run the shop, she thought, uncharitably. It was so much further away.

 

Entering, she ducked a flying origami swan as it made its escape out the door, and held the door open as the child who'd accidentally released it sprinted outside in a panic.

 

Weaving through the piles of junk and toys, she was relieved to find it was Ron at the counter instead of George. Then, she stepped in place to get a better view, and saw him leaning on the counter, talking to Susan Bones. Their heads were close together as they spoke quietly, small smiles on their faces, and Hermione stopped short, feeling her stomach twist a bit.

 

She knew she should be glad he was happy, what with this abomination of a law in place, but seeing him happy with another girl made her a lot sadder than she would have thought.

 

It wasn't fair, she knew. It wasn't like she was in love with him.

 

And yet she couldn't shake the sensation that she was _losing_ him. With Harry married to Ginny and, soon, Ron married to Susan, where did that leave her? With the spoiled heir to the Malfoys. Feeling tears prick her eyes, she took a step back to turn and go – she felt so stupid – but then Ron happened to glance up, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “'Mione!” he called, as she half-turned away.

 

She stopped, sighing. Figures.

 

She turned back, forcing a tight smile as Susan turned to look at her, her own smile natural and happy. Hermione kind of wanted to smack her.

 

“Hey, Ron. Sorry, I didn't know you were busy,” she muttered.

 

“Don't worry about it. I can't believe I'm seeing you at high noon on a _Monday_. Did the Ministry burn down?” he joked. “Did you get fired? Are you quitting so you can focus your energy on frittering away Malfoy's immense mountain of Galleons? Because if you can impoverish him before your divorce, I'm just saying, that would make me _so_ happy.”

 

Mention of Malfoy pinched her expression a bit, and she dropped her gaze.

 

Blinking, Ron let his smile fade, realizing something was wrong. He came out from behind the counter. “Are you alright?”

 

“No,” Hermione admitted, miserably. She glanced at Susan and clammed up a bit. “It's alright. I can wait and try and catch Harry before he leaves work, or something. It's not something I have to talk about _right_ now.”

 

Susan glanced between them, and grabbed her purse. “Actually, I was heading out,” she said, kindly.

 

 _God_ , did her insufferable niceness make Hermione want to claw at her eyes. She forced a smile, reminding herself that Susan really was quite nice and she was being a bint for even thinking these thoughts. “You don't have to, because of me.”

 

“No, really, I have to meet my friend for lunch. I'll see you later, Ron?”

 

“You know it,” Ron said, smiling at her. Susan blushed prettily and turned to leave, oblivious to Hermione's glare boring holes into the back of her head. She was so distracted by her uncharitable thoughts that she jolted when Ron poked her in the shoulder. “If you don't quit looking at her like that, I'm liable to believe you really _are_ in love with me.”

 

Her nose wrinkled. “Maybe I just don't like her.”

 

“Don't be stupid. You like Susan. You've always liked her,” he said, patiently. Hermione scowled, realizing he was right. They'd been fairly good acquaintances in school; Hermione had appreciated the girl simply for not being the simpering boy-hungry type that she had to share her dorm with. They'd even done homework together a few times.

 

She crossed her arms. “I'm allowed to change my mind about people,” she said, bitterly.

 

Ron frowned at her. “You're being daft. You're only saying that because something's got you in a snit,” he said, eyes narrowing a bit at her. Her scowl intensified, and he nodded. “I knew it. So what's wrong? Is it Malfoy? I thought you two were getting on alright, now, or something.”

 

“Why does it have to be about Malfoy?” she demanded, growing heated. “There's other things I hate about my life, you know, like my job.”

 

“So quit,” he advised, shrugging.

 

She made a frustrated noise. Why had she thought talking to Ron would make her feel better? “Not all of us can just drop what we were doing to go chase our dreams in a stupid _joke shop_ ,” she snapped. “Some of us have responsibilities and dreams.”

 

His expression hardened. “Whatever's going on with you, don't you take it out on me,” he said, harshly. “You always do this. Something upsets you, so you come and find me and try to start a fight. And I always let you, because you were my girlfriend and I thought it was normal to always be fighting like that. But you know what, Hermione, it's not. It's not normal,” he said, shaking his head. “Why do you do that? Do you feel powerful picking arguments with me, knowing I can't really keep up with you? Does it make you feel better to _upset_ me?”

 

There was a curious rawness to his voice, and Hermione stopped short, staring up at him with wide eyes. She felt her hands tremble a bit as she said, softly, “I don't do that.”

 

He shot her a hurt look. “Yes, you do. You always have. It's like you're all coiled up inside and you just snap at the nearest safe target. I don't know why that had to be me,” he said, a little bitterly. “I've always tried to be understanding, even when I can't understand you at all. I've always thought, _wow, I'm so lucky that this smart girl likes me_ , and I just sucked it up when you went on those tirades and made me feel stupid.” He stopped, frowning as his gaze dropped away, to his hands. Then he said, so softly it broke her heart, “I shouldn't have to feel stupid so you can feel better about yourself.”

 

She was silent, shaken to her core. It couldn't be true. That couldn't have been how she was. She was a nice person. She'd always been a nice person.

 

Hadn't she?

 

Since she wasn't speaking, Ron continued, his voice still soft and pained. “You know, sometimes I wish you acted more like you saw me as an equal. I'm not brilliant, but I'm not an idiot, either. And I _do_ understand more than you think I do, I just can't always find the words to say what I'm thinking.”

 

“Ron,” she breathed. She closed her eyes, pressing her hands to them a bit. She saw stars explode on the inside of her eyelids where her fingers prodded. “Ron, I... I don't think you're stupid. I never thought that.”

 

“You could've fooled me,” he muttered.

 

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. She dropped her fingers from her eyes and blinked the stars away. She folded her arms around herself, feeling so miserably guilty that she didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to just turn and flee the shop and never speak to him again, never face up to her own actions. The rest of her wanted to beg his forgiveness. “I... you know, it's just... sometimes I'm so jealous of you.”

 

Ron frowned a bit, leaning towards her. She'd said it so softly, he was almost sure he hadn't heard her right. “What's that?”

 

She sniffed, trying to keep from crying. She felt like all she did these days was cry. She was starting to really get annoyed with herself. “I'm jealous. You make life look so easy, you know. You look like you're happy, and when you see something that you think will make you more happy, you just move towards that thing, and... It's brave. You were always the bravest one, anyway, of the three of us.” She summoned a bit of a smile, but couldn't hold it. “Always the one putting himself out there, for better or for worse. And always the one who got over it quickest when it was for the worst.”

 

He was staring at her, and she dropped her gaze, embarrassed and suddenly unsure of herself. She didn't know how to express how she felt about him, how she envied the every-day acts of courage she saw from him that she knew she would never be able to do.

 

When his silence persisted, she chewed the inside of her cheek. “I... I guess I was a bad girlfriend, wasn't I?”

 

“No,” he said, softly. “You were fantastic, most of the time. Funny. Fun-loving. For as much as you nagged, you were also surprisingly easy-going, even if you couldn't help but make sarcastic comments about what I wanted to do. Creative with our dates. Sexy as hell,” he added, able to summon a grin.

 

“Shut up,” she chuckled, reddening.

 

“And really very lovable and cute,” he added, reaching up to touch the redness in her cheeks. “You know I love you. So much. And I loved you so hard back then.”

 

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

 

He considered it. “Yes, and no. I mean, I guess it was comfortable. I miss seeing you every day without fail. I miss falling asleep next to you and counting your freckles and stealing that pear shampoo of yours. I miss your Queen CDs and your movies and sitting with you on the couch while you read.” He paused, scratching the back of his neck a bit, feeling awkward about his confession. “I do miss us, sometimes, like the way you miss a really good memory. But I don't regret letting it just be a great memory. And I'm glad that we got out before we let it go sour.”

 

She nodded, silent. “I miss you, too. With Harry married, and you with Susan, I guess I just... I feel like maybe I'm losing everyone a little.”

 

“Don't be a twit, you'll always be our best friend.”

 

“Right, but it's not number one,” she said, huffing. “And I know it's stupid, but I miss the feeling of being someone's _number one_. At least while you were single, I could pretend I was yours.”

 

He laughed. “Why rank it? We're all everyone's number ones. You, me, Harry, Ginny – we're all each other's best friends, Hermione. There's no hierarchy. And all we're doing is adding Susan. We're bringing in _more_ fun, not dividing our existing fun out to strangers.”

 

“So can I bring in Malfoy?”

 

“Let's not get crazy.”

 

Hermione burst into giggles, the laughter sounding a little wet as she rubbed at her eyes. “Hypocrite.”

 

He scowled, wrinkling his nose dramatically. “Look, if he can stop being a git for seven consecutive seconds, maybe I'll vote him in.”

 

“ _Vote_ him in? So that's how it works?”

 

“Yes, it's a democracy.”

 

“Sounds like a clique to me,” she said, eyebrows shifting up a bit as she regarded him.

 

“Well, aren't all democracies basically cliques, when you get down to it?” he said, waving his hand a bit.

 

“No!”

 

“Same difference,” he insisted, continuing to wave his hand dismissively. She grabbed it, and he grinned at her, turning his hand to thread his fingers through hers. “Listen, I can promise to not be a prat to Malfoy if he doesn't _start it_.”

 

She looked unimpressed. “You'll get mad at something he does and then say that was him starting it.”

 

“And I'll probably be right.” Hermione rolled her eyes, and he squeezed her fingers a bit. “Say, what were you upset about, anyway?”

 

Heaving a sigh, Hermione let her hand drop away. “It's... You know, it's nothing,” she said, shaking her head a bit. At his curious frown, she said, “Really. I got bent out of shape about something, and when Malfoy tried to talk to me, I bit his head off and he left.”

 

Ron looked thoughtful. “I can't decide how I feel about this. On the one hand, you really shouldn't bite people's heads off when they're trying to fix things. On the other hand, it _is_ Malfoy...”

 

“Helpful, as ever,” she said, in a dry tone. “You should write a column.”

 

“I don't see how I'd have the time, when I'm so busy navigating _your_ problems. Your love life takes up every spare second I have, now, you know.” She smacked his chest, and he caught her hand, laughing. After a moment, she leaned in to hug him, and he lifted her up and turned her around a bit, making her squeal in protest.

 

She supposed, as she left the shop to head back to work, that talking to Ron hadn't been a waste of time. No, she hadn't talked about her problem, exactly, but she felt a lot better than she had walking in.

 

And, whether he knew it or not, he _did_ help her figure out what to do.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It was near the end of the work day when she penned the letter. It took her a full half-hour to figure out what, exactly, to say. She knew she should apologize in person for her behavior, but she kept opening the letter with an _I'm sorry_. It just felt cold to open it any other way.

 

After reworking the same sentence eighteen times, she finally decided to just _send_ it and explain herself in person later.

 

_Draco,_

 

_I feel bad about how I left things today. Can you come by the flat tonight to talk? If not, maybe we can still meet tomorrow at the cafe? I really want to talk to you. I'm sorry for what I said._

 

_Hermione_

 

Well. That was as good as it was going to get.

 

She left it in the care of one of the Ministry owls and spent a few minutes tidying up her desk before leaving. Then, she headed for the Floo room, patting her robes to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything in her cubicle. She waited in line for a free Floo and headed home, dreading her next conversation with Draco but at least feeling better about the prospect of apologizing.

 

As she stepped through the Floo into her living room, she startled a bit when she realized she wasn't alone. She grabbed her wand automatically, and then released it when she saw it was Draco.

 

“What--”

 

“You said to wait until you were done with work,” he said, seriously. “Are you done?”

 

Speechless, she stared at him. If she were being completely honest with herself, she'd expected to have to wheedle him into meeting with her, sure that his pride would be bruised by the way she'd told him off earlier. She'd figured that some groveling was in her future (although she'd promised herself that she wouldn't do too much of it, because after all, it wasn't as if he wasn't a little in the wrong, too) before she could properly talk about things.

 

Instead, he was already here, waiting for her. “I... I am,” she said, hesitantly. She hadn't been prepared to have this little confrontation so quickly. “Draco, I--”

 

There was a tapping at her window, and he flicked his wand at it when he saw the owl outside, the movement a little careless and overly familiar, like this was _his_ flat and not hers. The window opened and the owl flew across the room and landed on the couch, and to Draco's shock, dropped a letter in his lap.

 

“Oh, that's--” Hermione reddened. This was awkward. “Don't bother reading that, it's just--”

 

He opened it, reading the contents impassively. The owl hooted in his ear, hoping for a treat, and he waved a hand at it, shooing it back out the window. He folded the letter back up, and looked up at her, taking in her embarrassment quietly.

 

She bristled a bit, feeling a bit dumb. “Well, I didn't think you'd already be here, did I!”

 

Draco stood, closing the bit of distance between them as Hermione avoided his gaze. He touched his fingertips to her jaw, and she startled a little. He firmed his grip there, forcing her chin up to look at him. She met his gaze worriedly, and was surprised to find him shaking his head. “What are you doing?” he asked, dumbfounded. “Why are _you_ apologizing?”

 

Blinking, Hermione stared at him, momentarily at a loss. “Well, what I said, earlier – and not showing up to our cafe... Well, mostly what I said. It was... I was upset so I was very rude to you. I thought I should say that I was sorry, for that.”

 

He exhaled roughly, the noise half a laugh and half an incredulous snort. “I really don't know what I'm going to do with you, Hermione.”

 

She frowned, not quite following. “What?”

 

“I'm sorry,” he said, staring into her eyes. The simple and clear way he said it made her stomach flip a bit. She thought there'd be excuses, but there were none. And this was _Draco Malfoy_. Apologizing. To her. Without any excuses. Just the simple recognition that he'd messed up. Maybe Ginny was right, and this was some actually decent person Polyjuiced to look like the spoiled brat she'd grown up with. “I'm so sorry, Hermione. I can't believe I was so careless.”

 

“It's okay,” she murmured.

 

“It isn't,” he disagreed. “I suppose that during that time, I saw so many people endure the Cruciatus... My father, my mother, and of course me, not to mention all the other Death Eaters and a handful of people I didn't even know. Muggles, maybe. People who had no idea what was even going on. And I guess I just... Maybe I have more of my mother in me than my father.”

 

Her mouth was a little dry, and she found that she didn't know what to say.

 

“My father's good at compartmentalizing,” he continued, softly. “He can take those bad memories and put them away inside of himself, and still _be_ him. That's not something I suppose I'm particularly good at.”

 

“You don't have to be,” she murmured. “You shouldn't shut out the past. It happened, and... it was awful.” She laughed, finding her trite words ironic. “But if you try to ignore it, then you didn't learn anything, did you? And it's important to learn things from things that already happened. From your mistakes and your regrets.”

 

His fingers smoothed along her jaw, which she found very distracting. “What did you learn?” he wondered.

 

She inhaled deeply. She knew what she'd learned, but how to put it into words? “I learned that... I love my friends very much. And I learned that it's possible to feel bad for the people you're fighting and still be able to fight them. I learned that I can feel sympathy for people who hate me, and how hard it is to curse them on the battlefield when you're thinking about how they have families who love them back home. And I learned that I hate hurting people, even people I don't like, and I never want to do it again.” She spoke softly, almost shakily.

 

He licked his lips, swallowing with some difficulty. His hand smoothed past her jaw and around the back of her neck, and he leaned down without a further word and kissed her. This wasn't the sweet kiss on his broom, but something harder, and a little darker. She felt like she could almost taste the terrified teenager he'd been, the Hogwarts student whose only comfort in the world had been a ghost in the girl's abandoned loo.

 

Hermione wondered if kissing her made him feel better. God, she hoped so.

 

She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing up on her tiptoes a bit to deepen the kiss as her arms wound around his neck. His arms came around her waist, smoothing up her back, and she stepped forward, pushing him back towards the couch.

 

He hit it, and sat with a surprised grunt. She was in his lap in a heartbeat, knees planted on either side of his waist as she resumed the kiss, towering over him and forcing his head back. She ran her hands up his shoulders and neck, framing his jaw and fanning her thumbs over his ears. Her fingertips moved up from his neck through his scalp, destroying his perfect hairstyle that he'd likely spent forty minutes on that morning.

 

And Draco drank her in like she was an oasis in the dessert, helplessly clinging to her back and waist as he craned his head back to meet her. He almost felt drunk off of her. He wondered if she pitied him, or if she was the sort of girl to snog a man senseless out of pity.

 

Merlin, he hoped so.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The intensity of their make-out session lessened, but he was shocked to find that she was still kissing him twenty minutes later. She'd sat in his lap more securely, and had twined her arms around his neck again, and was kissing him in an almost lazy way that made him think of the sort of activities that came _after_ kissing. His hands had settled on her hips, and he ached to pull her more snugly against him, but was worried that if she felt him in his current – well, _state_ , she might spook and send him home.

 

What finally interrupted them was his stomach growling. She paused, their lips brushing together, and he felt her lips stretch into a smile against his. “Pretend you didn't hear that,” he said, a little hoarsely.

 

She laughed, softly, and gave him one final, lingering kiss before pulling back. “I'm actually famished, too.”

 

He stifled a groan. He didn't want to stop. “I suppose I shouldn't allow for a situation in which we both starve to death because we were snogging,” he allowed, looking a little grumpy at the concession.

 

She looked utterly charmed by his sullen expression. “We'll have plenty of opportunities to do this again. Ten years is a long time.”

 

Draco looked mollified, nodding. “You know, I thought you'd be rubbish at kissing.”

 

“ _What_. Why?” she demanded, her jaw dropping.

 

“I don't know. You were always such a swot,” he said, shrugging a bit. “There's a certain stereotype that goes along with that.”

 

She huffed and puffed, freeing her arms from the back of his neck so she could cross them. “Well, I'm glad I exceeded such horribly _low_ expectations,” she muttered. “This is an awful incentive if you want me to ever kiss you again, just so you know.”

 

“You were very good. Top ten,” he assured her. At her glare, he grinned. “Top five?”

 

“I'm going to slap you.”

 

“Top two,” he offered, and she raised her hand threateningly. He threw his own up to protect himself. “ _Not_ my face! Top one! Top _one_!”

 

“I rather thought that's what you meant,” she said, primly, climbing out of his lap. “Do you need to go home for dinner?”

 

“No, I already told mother I'd probably be here all night, trying not to make a bigger mess of things. I didn't think it'd go so quickly. I thought we had at least four more hours of arguing before I could convince you I wasn't a complete arsehole.”

 

“Sorry,” she said, smiling. “You know, I do so hate to ruin a good schedule. Would you like to resume our fight?”

 

“ _No_ , I would not,” he enunciated. “Let's go out to eat.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“Somewhere nice? What other glorious dresses has my mother picked out for you?” he asked, giving her body a lingering look that made her face heat.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Everything looks so ostentatious outside of a 'ball' setting,” she complained from her room. “I'd feel like an idiot wearing these just to a restaurant.” She was sifting through her closet, her voice raised so he could hear her out in the living room. “How nice of a place is it?”

 

“Nice,” he said, from _right_ behind her.

 

She squealed in surprise, whirling. He was looking at her clothes, but at her scream, he blinked at her. “Draco! Do you have no sense of personal space at _all_? You're in my _room_.”

 

“So?”

 

“I sleep here! And... I keep all my underthings in here,” she said, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Rooms are private, they're very personal.”

 

He looked around, and she fought the urge to kick him out into the living room again. “I don't see anything here that I wouldn't expect to see. Books. A bed. A dresser. Your closet.” He stopped, staring at her bed. “And a stuffed horse.”

 

Her face heated.

 

“Besides, I was in here before,” he added.

 

“Yes, and you were most definitely not welcome then, either,” she huffed. “As I recall, you chased me to the door while I was half-naked and threatened me.”

 

He reached out and started sorting through her clothes, making a face at the ones she'd owned _before_ Narcissa's shopping trip. He pulled out a few of her work clothes and draped them over his arm as he looked through. “I didn't threaten you. I just wanted to make it clear that I didn't like your additions to the contract.”

 

“You had me pinned against the door half- _naked_ \-- how do you _not_ know what a threat is?” she asked, incredulously.

 

He pulled out a soft brown dress, an almost creamy sort of color, like over-milked coffee. “Wear this.” He held it out to her. When she stared at him, he jiggled it on the hanger, eyebrows raised, until she rolled her eyes and took it. Then he gathered up the various work clothes he'd flung on his arm and headed for her bedroom door.

 

“Wait, where are you going with those?”

 

“These, I'm going to throw out your window, or into the fireplace,” he drawled.

 

“ _No_. Draco _Lucius_ Malfoy, you get back here with my clothes!” she shrieked, chasing after him. He closed her door in her face, and held the handle as she yanked on it.

 

“Hurry up and change. I got a reservation in half an hour,” he called through the door.

 

“Don't you dare burn my clothes!”

 

“I'll buy you new ones.”

 

“Draco!” She heard him mutter _Incendio!_ Gasping in outrage, she flung the door open, and watched the little pile of clothes burn to a crisp in her hallway. “You-- you _ferret_ ,” she yelled, smacking him with the hanger he'd just handed her. “Stop laughing! I'm going to put you in St. Mungo's!”

 

He fended off her strikes and jumped over the small pile of burning clothes, out of harm's way, laughing. “I'll get you better ones. Ones that actually look nice on you.”

 

Hermione glared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then she pointed at the small burning pile. “Clean this up. And if a single scorch mark gets on this floor, I am going to beat you over the head with your own beloved broom.” She turned on her heel, slamming her door as she went to change.

 


	12. Activate the Pods

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twelve: Activate The Pods**

 

…

 

The dress was another simple affair, with capped sleeves and a hem that ended just below her knees. It fit her rather snugly, though, and she inspected herself in the mirror for a _long_ time, until Draco had finally knocked on the door and asked what the bloody hold-up was.

 

“I don't know about this dress,” she said.

 

The door opened, and she rolled her eyes. _No_ sense of propriety or personal space at _all_. Draco sauntered into the room, his hands in his pants pockets, and eyeballed her thoroughly. “What's wrong with it?”

 

“It's just rather... form-fitting,” she mumbled, reddening a bit.

 

He looked at her a moment, and then grinned. “You think your hips look huge,” he said, pointing at her. He started laughing as she glared at him through the mirror's reflection, her face burning red. “What did I tell you about letting my mother's little comments get to you?”

 

She remained silent, glaring at him steadily. His laughter calmed, and he stepped up behind her. “Look. See all this fancy embroidery up here?” He reached around her, drawing his finger along the collar and the sleeves. She held her breath a bit, feeling like a randy teenager for a moment. And she certainly didn't miss his self-satisfied smile as he noticed her reaction. “It's there to draw attention up, away from your hips. To balance you out. My mother picked this out; she wouldn't have picked out something that didn't make you look good.”

 

“I wish I could stop thinking about these stupid hips,” she muttered.

 

He stepped up, his body flush against her back, and put his hands on her waist. She stared at their reflection as he spread his hands down, fingers first, pressing his palms over her hips. He leaned in, pressing his lips up to her ear as he whispered, “I quite like these hips.”

 

“Keep it in your pants, Malfoy,” she said, although her voice was a little airy. She gasped as he dug his fingers in a bit, pulling her hips back against him.

 

His voice in her ear murmured, “Draco.”

 

“Draco,” she corrected, in an even _breathier_ tone. She was going to look back on this moment when she was more herself and want to smack herself. She felt like Lavender bloody Brown.

 

Smirking a bit in victory, he released her, and in turn she released the breath she hadn't realized she'd still been holding. “We should really go. We're going to be late as it is,” he pointed out, heading for her hallway.

 

Hermione stared at her flushed reflection. God help her.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The restaurant _defined_ “haute cuisine.” Hermione had actually balked at the door upon going in; her hair was still a bit of a mess and she hadn't put on a bit of make-up. All she had between her and the judgmental stares of every patron in that restaurant was a dress.

 

Draco, of course, wasn't hearing any of it, and dragged her in by her hand. They earned some curious looks as they were led to their table, which he (naturally) ignored utterly.

 

She was still red by the time she sat down. “I still wish you'd let me go back to at least put on some mascara.”

 

“Your eyelashes are dark enough.”

 

She put her napkin in her lap, rolling her eyes. _Men_. Even when they were as knowledgeable and fashion-conscious as Draco, they were still bloody idiots. Opening the menu, she perused it, considering the options carefully.

 

When the waiter arrived, Draco started to order, in French. When he ordered for her, though, she jerked her head up.

 

“That's not what I want,” she said, blinking.

 

He stared at her. “Can you read that?” he asked, incredulously.

 

She made a face at him, turning to the waiter and speaking in fluent, if somewhat accented, French: “ _Actually, I would love to try the duck confit. Is it good?_ ” Feeling smug at Draco's taken aback expression, she engaged in a lovely conversation with the waiter and ordered her own dishes before handing him the menu.

 

“I...” Draco paused. “Did not know you were bilingual.”

 

“Tri. I speak Spanish as well,” she said, glibly. “Honestly, Draco, what did you think a 'swot' like me filled her time with, if not snogging all the boys in school?”

 

“Did you snog _any_ boys in school?”

 

She pursed her lips. “I had some kisses,” she said, with a shrug, looking around the restaurant.

 

“With?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

“So, no one,” he drawled. When she just shrugged again, his eyes narrowed. “I'll guess, then. Krum.”

 

She smiled, but refused to dignify it with an answer.

 

“Weasel.”

 

She blinked slowly, batting her eyelashes at him as she continued to smile silently.

 

“Tell me,” he demanded.

 

“No,” she said, calmly. “My kisses are mine and I don't like sharing.”

 

The waiter returned to pour their wine, and Draco considered her across the table. When the waiter poured the little tasting portion in his glass, he picked it up – not taking his eyes off of her – and smelled it. Then he nodded, and the waiter turned to pour her glass before filling Draco's the rest of the way up. After he left, Draco said, “What's your favorite wine?”

 

“Brunello.”

 

“Italian,” he scoffed. “Always overdoing it. I like to be seduced by a wine, not punched by it.”

 

She took a sip of the wine he'd chosen – a Bordeaux. “I suppose French wine is vastly superior?” she asked, with a faint hint of mockery, and smiled when he nodded somberly. “Well, if I must limit my favorites to a single country, I prefer the Rhone.”

 

“Really. I thought you would be a Burgundy girl.”

 

“Oh, I hate Pinot Noir,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “The Chardonnay is alright, I suppose. I like red wines better. Why did you think I preferred Burgundy?”

 

He shifted his shoulders a bit in a faint shrug. “It's light and refined.”

 

“I am certainly not either of those things,” she said, laughing. “You know, someone once told me they had a saying about French reds. Want to hear it?”

 

He inclined his head, watching her with a faint smile on his face.

 

“So, it goes, Bordeaux is the girl your parents want you to marry,” she said, slowly. “She's structured and refined and perfect in every way. But Burgundy's the girl you fall in love with, the artist, the wandering spirit – she's kind and gentle and delicate, like a little bird. And the Rhone.” She smiled, a little wickedly. “Is the woman you cheat on them both with.”

 

Draco's own smile widened. “And why is that?”

 

“Because she's wild, and sexy, and hard to ignore. She's the kind of girl who swears in polite company and wears short skirts and bright lipstick.” She settled back in her chair.

 

“You are certainly no Rhone.”

 

“No,” she agreed, readily. “Ginny would be the Rhone. But she set her sights on Harry and he didn't have any parents to disapprove of her, so...”

 

Draco chuckled, warmly. “Then what are you?”

 

Hermione hesitated. “I don't know. I guess I'm not any of them,” she admitted. “I'll be a German Riesling. Frosty and difficult.”

 

He sobered. “No. I think you were right the first time. Brunello. That's you. A wine that can be a little rough around the edges, but it's bright and full of sunshine and appealing to almost everyone.”

 

Wow. She inhaled sharply, and cast him a suspicious look. “You know, I almost don't know what to do with myself if you're not insulting me.”

 

“I'm _sure_ I'll manage to do so before the evening is over.”

 

“No rush,” she assured him, throwing her hands up in surrender.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After dinner, she'd been so stuffed she decided to walk home, and Draco – acting the part of the gentleman he insisted he was – walked with her. “Draco, did you date a lot before this law?”

 

He frowned a bit. “Somewhat. But it's different than what you do. It's not dating, it's courting. It's a little more formal. You still go out to dinner, but usually you have to go with another pair of adults – typically married – to act as guardians to the girl's virginity. You can still meet up alone, but only at your house or theirs, so someone's always watching to make sure you don't do anything inappropriate. I've been on normal dates, too, with girls of less refined breeding, but my parents always made it quite clear that marrying them was out of the question.”

 

“Too bad for them about this law, then,” she joked. “I wish I had a snapshot of their face when they walked into that conference room and saw _me._ ”

 

He opted not to respond to that. “Did you?”

 

“Go on dates? Sure, plenty of them. I always hate the first couple, when you're still awkwardly getting to know each other. But the later ones can be boring, too. My favorites are the fourth through the eighth ones, when you're still getting to know each other but you're familiar enough that it doesn't feel strained.”

 

“That's _very_ specific.”

 

“When have you known me to be less than specific?”

 

He inclined his head. “Touche.”

 

“So when you went on normal dates, what were they like?” she wondered. She was curious to know if his idea of 'normal' was the same as hers.

 

Looking up at the night sky, he thought for a moment, lazily picking out some of the constellations. “We'd usually go out to eat, or perhaps to a coffee shop. Maybe a play. Usually we didn't have chaperones, so there was a fair amount of snogging and having frantic sex in coat rooms – don't look at me like that, Hermione. Do you know how hard it is to have a shag when you live with your parents?”

 

“Poor thing,” she said, sarcastically. “Why don't you just move out?”

 

Draco shook his head. “You can't. Purebloods don't move out until they're married. It's how it's always been.”

 

“I swear, it really is like you're all stuck a few centuries behind the rest of the world,” she murmured. “I can't imagine how you live like that. I'd go absolutely mad.”

 

“So Muggles are like you? They live by themselves, all of them?”

 

“Well, most of them. It's normal to move out from your parents when you become a legal adult,” she said. “Or maybe after you finish uni. And then you can live with roommates, people who share the rent with you, or sometimes you live with your boyfriend or girlfriend.”

 

“You'd be allowed to live together, even if you weren't married?” he asked, surprised.

 

She blinked. “Sure, people do it all the time. Marrying is a big step. Sometimes you're ready to live with each other but not quite ready to become completely legally entwined.”

 

“Did you live with the Weasel, when you were dating?”

 

Hermione cleared her throat, embarrassed. “No. Actually, it was something of an elephant in the room with us. He hinted at wanting to move in a lot, but I didn't want to have to give up my space. I can be rather selfish, I suppose.”

 

Draco fell silent, thinking that over as they walked. She was happy to fall into a companionable silence with him, enjoying the cool night air.

 

As they turned onto the street with her flat, she said, “When Muggles have dates, usually it's to go out to eat or to the cinema or something. You go out and do the activity, and then usually the bloke walks the girl to her door, or drives her there, depending.”

 

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and saw he was watching her closely. She continued.

 

“ _Usually_ , when they reach her door, they have a good-night kiss. Sometimes, she brings him inside and there's more than that.”

 

“I see,” he murmured. She let him into the building, and they walked up the stairs to her flat. As they reached her door, she turned to face him. The intensity of his gaze stole her breath, and she chewed her lower lip. He leaned in a bit, propping his hand against her door and crowding her a little. “How does he know if she wants to bring him inside for more?”

 

She swallowed. “The kiss is really, really good, and she opens the door and pulls him inside.”

 

He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers. “Does it go something like this?”

 

“That's a good start,” she breathed, and grabbed his shirt to pull him the rest of the way in. His mouth opened, tongue teasing at her lips until she opened up, too. He pushed her up against the door, groaning softly in his throat as he flattened his body against hers.

 

She pressed back, arching her back a little, until she knew she had to open the door and let them inside before they did something indecent out in the hallway.

 

Still kissing him, she scrambled to unlock her door blind, and managed to get it open, stumbling backwards into her flat. He gave her no quarter, following her closely and kissing her frantically, his hands exploring anywhere and everywhere they could reach. Hermione kicked the door shut, and walked backwards down the hallway, towing him along with her. She pushed his robe off his shoulders, leaving it crumpled on the floor outside the kitchen.

 

Then they were in her bedroom, and he was pushing her onto her bed, his palms smoothing up her legs and gathering the material of her dress as he pushed it upwards.

 

She had to break the kiss to reach behind herself, trying to undo her own zipper. Finally, he helped her, and she shrugged the shoulders of the dress off before pulling his head back down for another heated kiss. Then she worked on getting his clothes off, too, and managed to divest him of his shirt moments before he was able to pull her dress completely off.

 

His lips traveled down her neck, his hands roughly roving over the newly bared skin of her ribs. He pressed a few hot kisses against her collarbone and then further down.

 

Then he stopped. “What is this?” he asked, lifting a small brown pod from her cleavage. It seemed to be hanging from an invisible wire.

 

She gasped, horrified. As he pressed on the pod curiously, she exclaimed, “No! Don't!”

 

Too late.

 

“ _RAPE! MURDER!! ARSON! SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE!!!_ ”

 

Draco stumbled back, his eyes going wide as he fell to the floor on the side of the bed. Cursing, Hermione scrambled to find her wand in the pile of their clothing, as the pod screamed bloody murder. Finally, she found her wand and turned it on the pod, muttering a short phrase to get it to stop.

 

The silence that followed was _deafening_. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed in her underwear, stricken with mortification as Draco stared up at her with his jaw hanging open.

 

After several long moments, he asked, “What the _bloody hell_ was that?”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The mood was effectively ruined after that. She'd explained that it was something she'd bought from George, sort of like a Muggle rape whistle. Then she'd had to explain what a rape whistle was.

 

Finally, he'd asked her why she'd felt the need to purchase a wizarding rape whistle.

 

Her silence was damning. He'd stared at her, his expression slowly changing as he realized, and then he'd muttered a curse and started gathering his clothes. She just sat on her bed, pressing her face into her hands while in her underwear, as he got dressed and stormed out of the flat.

 

The next morning, she got an owl explaining that he wouldn't be able to make it to coffee that day.

 

The morning after that, she got an identical one.

 

She didn't see him for the entire week. And she wasn't prepared for the realization that not only did it _hurt_ , she also missed him and his stupid spoiled brat attitude. She tried sending a tentative owl asking if he was free for lunch, but the terse reply had simply apologized and explained that his schedule was completely full.

 

Hermione didn't try again after that.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“You are in a foul mood,” Ginny observed. They were both swinging on the swings at a park near 12 Grimmauld Place as James played tag with Albus on the grass. “Are you even listening to a word I'm saying?”

 

Hermione blinked, turning to her friend as she struggled to figure out what the last thing said was. “Uh, yes, you were... Talking about the snitch?”

 

“Nice try,” Ginny grumbled. “Come on, where's your head at? I didn't bring you out with me so I could talk at a dummy.”

 

The curly-haired witch sighed, leaning back in the swing until her hair skimmed the ground. “It's Malfoy,” she finally said, in a miserable tone. “No matter what we do, we always seem to bollocks it up with each other. He's not speaking to me right now.”

 

“Do I even want to know what you did?”

 

Hermione straightened, and explained everything – she'd kissed Malfoy last Sunday, the drawing room, their intense conversation on Monday and the snogging session that followed it, then the date, and then the almost-sex.

 

Ginny's jaw was hanging open by the end of it. Then she leaned over and started smacking Hermione on the shoulder and arm.

 

“Ow! Ginny, stop it!” she complained, trying to push her swing away.

 

“I can't _believe_ all of this has been going on and you haven't even _told_ me!” Ginny yelled, outraged. “I am your best and _only_ girl-friend, and you have just broken the _Sacred Girl Code_ of sharing.”

 

“There's _no_ such code.”

 

“There is, and you can ask any girl in the whole world and they'll know exactly what I'm talking about,” the redhead insisted. “You snogged Malfoy. That is _humongous_ news that I had a right to the second it happened. And you failed me.”

 

Hermione twisted her swing around, letting the chains tangle up with each other over her head. “Well, now he won't even return my owls, so you didn't miss much.”

 

“You shouldn't take advice from George, anyway. What were you thinking?”

 

“It was Bill's idea to ask George!” Hermione defended, scowling. “And I was scared. That was before I got to know him, and he was being a scary prat.”

 

“Well, now he's a prat with hurt feelings.”

 

“I don't actually need to feel worse,” she snipped, glaring at Ginny. “You don't have to be on his side to try and help me understand why I'm mean. I already know. I get it.”

 

Ginny pursed her lips. “I'm just saying, no one likes being accused of being a rapist. Former Death Eater Draco Malfoy probably dislikes it more than most people. Wasn't that something they were said to do at those 'revels' they had? He probably saw it more than once.”

 

“You don't think he participated?” Hermione asked, sharply.

 

Ginny shrugged. “I can't see him participating,” she said, thoughtfully. “He was just a kid, then. He was probably sick to his stomach. Malfoy's always been a git, but he wasn't... I don't know. He wasn't _evil_ like that.”

 

“But you don't have to _be_ evil to do evil things.” Unsettled, Hermione diverted her gaze to James and Albus playing. “You just have to be appropriately susceptible to peer pressure and running with the wrong crowd, and by all accounts Malfoy seemed to be both of those things at the time.”

 

“Well, I don't know. I try not to linger too long on thoughts of the Ferret's inner workings. Weasleys and Malfoys just don't understand each other,” Ginny said, shaking her head.

 

Hermione lifted her feet off the ground, letting the swing spin her around as it righted itself. “I don't think anyone understands the Malfoys. Every time I think I might understand him a little, I see something else and I realize I never really understood him at all. I can never tell if I'm looking at some persona he created or the real him.”

 

“Maybe there is no real him, and it's all just a bunch of personas. Maybe you're going to lift all these masks off him one by one, and finally, underneath every mask, there's just a big, fat nothing.”

 

She shot Ginny a glare. “You have a real talent for being the least comforting person possible. Honestly. You should open up a stand on the street selling the world's most negative therapy.”

 

“They always say: Do what you love, and the money will come,” Ginny said, grinning.

 


	13. Estrangement

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirteen: Estrangement**

 

…

 

The next week passed much like the previous. Now it was May, and she hadn't seen Draco since that fateful night in her flat. She'd gotten an invitation to one of Narcissa's soirees, but wasn't sure if his mother was aware of what had happened between them. She also didn't know if Draco would be there, or if he would not want _her_ to be there.

 

In the end, she'd declined, explaining that she already had plans for that evening, and had thanked Narcissa for thinking of her. She decided she couldn't risk it.

 

No owls came immediately after that decision, so she determined that Narcissa must have been fine with it. If she hadn't been, she was sure Lucius would have finally sent her one of his rare owls chastising her for being a bint. And Draco might have actually shown up at her flat demanding that she go to his mother's party.

 

But he didn't. And she felt pathetic for kind of wishing he would.

 

After her failed attempts at trying to meet with him, Hermione had decided to give him his space, and the week edged by at an excruciating pace without his company. She felt listless at work, finding it a little difficult to concentrate. They finally seemed to be reaching an accord with the trolls, and she couldn't even find it within herself to be as ecstatic about that as she knew she should be.

 

Her days at the office grew a little longer as she threw herself into new projects, and as the third Malfoy-less week was well under way, Harry finally stopped by her cubicle.

 

“You don't live here, you know,” he said. He was still in his Auror robes, although she knew it was near the end of the day. “You haven't been over in ages. Ron thought you were mad at him until Ginny told him that you and Malfoy were fighting.”

 

She decided to ignore his comment about Draco. She didn't want to talk about him. “I have a new project and you know how important the first couple of days are with it,” she said. Her voice sounded perfectly even, to her endless surprise. She continued to write on her parchment, jotting down her notes on the book she kept glancing at. Then Harry reached over and closed the book, making her jump a bit. “Harry! Now I've lost my place,” she said, crossly.

 

He didn't look apologetic at all. “Get up, because I'm taking you _home_.” His tone brooked no argument. Harry wasn't usually a commanding sort, but every once in a while, when he got that expression on his face, there was absolutely no trying to fight him.

 

Scowling, Hermione packed up her things and stood. He stepped back from the opening of her cubicle, gesturing down the hallway, and she made a face at him as she passed.

 

“I don't know why you're so adamant. I've stayed late nights at the office before,” she defended.

 

“Yes, but not because you were all torn up inside over a blonde-haired git,” he pointed out. “I'm not going to sit around and let you wallow in your cubicle. You'll go mad in there. Come see your friends.”

 

“I see you lot all the time.”

 

“I don't know if you've noticed, Hermione, in your _Waaah, I miss Malfoy_ haze of self-pity, but you haven't actually seen any of us in over two weeks,” he scoffed. “As I recall, you used to like hanging out with us, and I think even if you're not seeing Malfoy on a daily basis, you might still enjoy the experience.”

 

“Will you stop talking about Draco?” She hugged her work to her chest, frowning.

 

“Maybe if you stop spending every waking moment _thinking_ about him,” Harry muttered. “Honestly, you're like a lovesick teenager over the prat.”

 

“Good evening, Mister Potter. Miss Granger.”

 

Hermione froze as that silky voice came from an adjoining hallway to the one they were walking along. _No_. It couldn't be. She didn't have luck _that_ rotten, surely.

 

As she turned, she realized that yes, she did have luck that rotten. Lucius looked at them both with impassive politeness, and she went a brilliant tomato-red, wondering what exactly he'd heard. From the supercilious way he was cocking his eyebrow, she was sure he heard _way_ more than she wanted him to hear. “Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” she muttered. Her parchments began to wrinkle as she hugged them harder into herself.

 

“Lucius,” he reminded her.

 

“Hello, Lucius,” she repeated, dutifully, scowling at the ground.

 

His gaze lifted to Harry, who muttered a hello as well. Then he said, “Mister Potter, I would like to take a moment of Miss Granger's time. Would you mind if I made her tardy to your get-together?”

 

She wondered if Harry caught the mocking inflection to the last word.

 

Obviously not, because he just sighed and nodded. “Hermione, you'll come over, won't you?” he pressed. When she didn't respond, he ducked down to stare into her down-turned face, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

 

“ _Yes_ , alright, I'll come over.”

 

“Excellent. See you in a few.” He clapped her on the back and started to head off, and she resisted the urge to scream after him: _No, don't leave me with Lucius sodding Malfoy!_

 

But he turned the corner, and was gone.

 

Unwillingly, Hermione turned back to Lucius, who was looking at her with an insufferably amused expression. “Thank you for your time, Miss Granger.”

 

“You know, if we're supposed to be on a first-name basis, you should be calling me Hermione,” she said, pursing her lips a bit. She didn't really care what he called her, but it made her feel a little better to correct him like he was so fond of correcting her.

 

He nodded. “Very well, Hermione.”

 

Oh, nope. She'd spoken too soon. She _did_ care what he called her, because the way her given name sounded in his mouth made her want to throw her parchments up in a cloud of distraction as she ran screaming down the hallway.

 

Lucius half-turned. “I'll be glad to walk you towards the Floo as we speak.” He waited for her to fall in line alongside him. “Narcissa and I have sensed that things have gone awry between you and Draco.”

 

So Draco hadn't _told_ them anything. Hermione felt a hint of relief; she couldn't imagine that Lucius would take the news of her rape-whistle-pod any better than Draco did. And Narcissa might faint, or something. “We're fighting,” she agreed, in a mutter.

 

“Indeed.” He slanted her a look, and then she realized that Draco _might_ have told him. It was impossible to tell what Lucius was thinking. “Narcissa's event tomorrow is an informal gathering. She knows you do not have alternative plans.” Hermione winced. “Why did you decline?”

 

“I... Well, I didn't think your son would much want me there.”

 

“We have raised Draco well. You do not need to worry about him making a scene,” he assured her.

 

Hermione blinked, huffing a soft laugh. “I'm not worried about him making a scene,” she said. She was worried about having to face him. And she was _very_ worried that when she did, he would look at her coldly and then proceed to ignore her.

 

“I see,” Lucius said, and Hermione was afraid for a moment that he really _did_ see. She felt her face grow hot. “Well, perhaps something will happen that will change your mind on the matter.”

 

She looked at him sharply. “What? Why? What did you do?” she demanded.

 

“Do, Hermione? What could I possibly do to alter your stubborn nature?” he asked, and the innocence in his tone was like a big sign declaring _Yes, I've done something sinister and you will be going to that party whether you like it or not_.

 

She stared at him, her eyes narrowed. “What did you do?” she repeated, gritting each word out. Because she knew he'd done something.

 

Instead of answering, he stopped before an available Floo, and said, “I will see you tomorrow, Hermione.” Then he was walking away, leaving her staring after him in front of the damn Floo like an idiot. It wasn't until someone hissed at her to move along that she finally grabbed the powder, heading to Harry's, her mind awhirl.

 

Just what was Lucius up to?

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She didn't have to wait too long to find out.

 

“Oh, Hermione!” Ginny squealed. “You won't _believe_ it! You know Narcissa's parties? Well, guess who got invited?” She flapped the invitation around. “Yes! Fancy dress-up!”

 

Harry was holding his own invitation, as was Ron.

 

“We get to bring someone,” Ron said. Even _he_ didn't look disgusted by the idea of going to a Malfoy party. “I'm going to ask Susan if she's doing anything tomorrow.”

 

Hermione stared at him. “Since when do you want to go to the Manor, Ron?”

 

He looked a bit guilty, and glanced between her and the invitation. “Since... I got an invitation inviting me to a soiree there along with all of my friends?” he tried. “You and Harry got to go last time, and he said the food was amazing. I want to see.”

 

“Do you always think with your stomach?”

 

“I guess I can take Brandy,” Ginny said, referring to one of her teammates on the Harpies. “Harry, you take Hermione if she doesn't have an invite already. No, wait, you probably do, don't you?”

 

“I already said no,” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms.

 

They all shared a look. They nodded sagely to each other, and Ginny took the lead. “Hermione, don't you think this little snit has gone on long enough? You've been an absolute wreck, and a snotty one, too. You should try to talk to him.”

 

“I _did_ , and he refused to meet me!”

 

“Well, maybe his parents are forcing him to talk to you like we're forcing you to talk to him,” Harry suggested, brightly.

 

Hermione took a step backwards, towards the Floo. “You're not forcing me to do _anything_.”

 

“Grab her, she's running!” Ron shouted, and Hermione shrieked and turned towards the fireplace before she was tackled by three full-grown adults.

 

She made a pained noise from the floor as they gathered her up. “You trolls,” she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. “You could have squished me flat, you know, or broken my ribs, or given me a _concussion_ \--!”

 

“Ginny, you go get a change of clothes from her flat. We'll have to hold her hostage here,” Harry said, grimly.

 

Ginny smiled and grabbed some Floo powder.

 

“I'm not _staying_ here so you can kidnap me to some ruddy party,” Hermione said, fighting furiously against Ron as he wrapped her in a bear hug. She kicked his shin, and was gratified to hear him grunt in pain. “Ronald Weasley, you have three seconds to release me before I turn you into a _castrato_.”

 

“She's bluffing,” Harry said, pointing at Ron. “Don't you dare let her go.”

 

“I really don't want to be a castrato, mate,” Ron stage-whispered over her head as he struggled to keep her still. Hermione was squirming like a sack full of kittens.

 

Harry grabbed her wand, as Hermione shrieked in outrage. “This, I'm hiding, because you're a danger to yourself and others,” he said, primly, and turned to walk upstairs with it.

 

“Harry James Potter, you return here this _instant_ with my wand!”

  
He ignored her, and disappeared around the hallway, heading to one of the several rooms there.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

By the time Ginny returned, Ron was sitting on the couch with his arms wrapped around a sullen Hermione, who had fought voraciously for about ten minutes before she tuckered herself out. Harry was sitting in the recliner, reading the _Prophet_ like nothing odd was happening on the couch opposite.

 

Ginny paused just outside the Floo, taking in the scene before her. “I do so love these family moments,” she said, with a dreamy smile on her face. “Now, if James and Albus were here instead of with their Aunt Tonks, this would truly be something worth capturing in a photograph.”

 

“I'm planning all of your murders,” Hermione promised, from Ron's lap.

 

“Perfect family gathering,” Ginny sighed, happily. She dropped a shopping bag near Ron's feet. “I got some clothes, including a _gorgeous_ dress that I assume Narcissa Malfoy picked out.”

 

“What a rude thing to say. How do you know I didn't pick it out?” Hermione demanded, earning several incredulous looks. She reddened under the scrutiny, and growled, renewing her struggles against Ron's arms for a moment. “Alright, I get it, I dress like a bloody _urchin_!”

 

“Anyway, we'll have to cut ourselves off from the outside world.” She closed the Floo, murmuring an enchantment that only she could lift. “Harry, I assume you nicked her wand.”

 

“Hidden upstairs,” he said, not taking his eyes off the newspaper.

 

“Good.” She walked over to the front door and locked and warded it, as well. “Ron, you can still Apparate out, when you need to go home. You can also let her go,” she added, as she charmed all the windows shut.

 

As soon as she was freed, Hermione stood and turned, smacking Ron about the shoulder and head repeatedly as he cowered and screamed for help. “You are a _traitor_ , Ron Weasley.”

 

“Nobody help all at once!” Ron bellowed at Harry and Ginny, holding up his arms to shield his face.

 

“Oh!” Ginny gasped. “I forgot about my roast.” She turned and darted into the kitchen.

 

“Unbelievable!” Ron yelled after her.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione's rampage had managed to slow to a stop by the time Ginny had dinner out, and now she was just sulking at the dining table and poking at her potatoes.

 

“Eat,” Ron ordered, through a mouthful of food. “What's wrong with you? This is great.”

 

“Maybe you're putting her off her appetite by chewing with your _mouth_ open,” Ginny said, glaring at him. “Not to mention talking with your mouth _full_. I know _my_ appetite is suffering.”

 

“Impossible,” Harry muttered. Ginny ate like a prepubescent boy.

 

Ginny cut him a glare. “What's that?” she asked, sharply.

 

“I love you,” Harry said, grinning at her winningly.

 

“Thought so,” she murmured, spooning some peas into her mouth. When she'd swallowed, she added, “Hermione, stop acting like it's the end of the world to go to a party. So it might be awkward for a few moments. I'm sure he'll fondly remember your snogging--”

 

“I'm eating, here,” Ron cut in, pulling a face.

 

“And pull you into his arms like an old movie.”

 

Hermione sighed, shoving a piece of potato in her mouth. It _was_ delicious, damn her. “No. You didn't see his face that night after he realized what I had. And why I had it. He was absolutely furious.”

 

“He'll get over it. It's not like he has a choice, you _have_ to get married. There's no backing out, now.”

 

“Getting married isn't the same as being _happily_ married,” Hermione grumbled.

 

Ron glanced at her. “Well, to be fair, did you really ever expect to be _happily_ married with _Malfoy?_ ”

 

She hesitated. “No. But I thought at least it didn't have to be _awful._ We were getting along.”

 

“And you still will,” Ginny assured her. “It's just one little screw-up. You're allowed to have at least one little screw-up. The good thing about this is, it's not like he can break up with you. You'll _have_ to talk it out. Eventually. He's stuck with you.”

 

“Well, that makes me feel just divine, thank you,” Hermione snapped, scowling.

 

Ginny made a _tsk_ ing noise. “You know what I mean.”

 

“You know, she's right,” Harry said, softly. “And the longer you wait before talking it over, the worse it'll be.”

 

“I tried to talk it over, and he refused to meet,” she reminded him, defensively.

 

“How many times did you try?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing a bit.

 

“I owled him!”

 

“Once?” Harry guessed. When Hermione just stared at him, he sighed and shook his head. “You know, when he made you mad, he followed you to work and then he waited at your flat for you. He didn't just send you a single owl.”

 

“You're defending him, now?”

 

“I'm just pointing that out,” Harry said, with an inelegant shrug.

 

Ron glanced at her, and _swallowed_ before speaking, this time. “He's not... wrong,” Ron said, awkwardly, earning an incredulous glare from his ex-girlfriend. He flushed. “I mean, you did sort of have the habit of... Well, when we fought, you did kind of avoid having to apologize. Are you sure that's not what you're doing with him, now?”

 

“I was _going_ to apologize!” she said, hotly.

 

“Yes, but then you gave up pretty much immediately. You do that, sometimes, when you know you're wrong. You'll try just the once and then give up, chalking it up to me being _unreasonable_ so you don't have to actually say you're sorry.”

 

“That's _not_ true.”

 

But Ginny and Harry were nodding.

 

Hermione's mouth fell open as she regarded her friends, feeling a little betrayed. “Does everyone at this table think I'm just a _horrible person_?”

 

Harry laughed. “Of course not! You just hate being wrong so much that sometimes...”

 

“You don't make amends properly,” Ginny finished. She noticed Hermione's hurt expression, and hurried to add, “It doesn't mean you're not a great person, Hermione. I mean, Ron chews with his mouth open and I still love him. Harry gets in these awful moods for no reason like he's suffering from PMS--”

 

“Hey!” Harry protested.

 

“And Ginny's a nosy little gossip,” Ron added.

 

Ginny glared at him. “ _Thank_ you. Anyway, we all have our faults, Hermione. It doesn't make you a horrible person. But if you're able to recognize those faults, you should work on trying to improve them, right? I'm not half as bad a gossip as I was when I was in school.”

 

Ron snorted indelicately, and Ginny picked up a roll and threw it at his face. It bounced off of his stunned expression and he froze there for a moment before picking up a spoonful of peas and aiming them at her like a catapult.

 

“No!” Harry ordered, pulling out his wand. “I'm calling an _immediate_ ceasefire before you idiots make a mess of my kitchen. Put it down, Ron, or so help me.”

 

Ron glared at Ginny as he slowly put his spoon down.

 

A snort broke through the tension, and everyone looked at Hermione as she burst into laughter. Slowly, they all joined in, a feeling of relief sweeping through the room. As Hermione's chortles calmed, she said, fondly, “I love you all.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The rest of the evening was delightful. They played games, argued over the rules of said games, and talked until the early morning. She couldn't remember feeling this carefree or staying up this late with her friends since... well, since before James was born. When they'd all been a few years younger, they'd always been night-owls, staying up until the wee hours talking and drinking.

 

Then Ginny had given birth to a glowing baby boy, and all of that just came to an abrupt halt. Hermione hadn't minded, and she fully understood, but she hadn't realized until just then how much she _missed_ it.

 

Ron left around three in the morning, yawning widely, and they all trucked off to bed. The next morning, the smell of cooking bacon woke her, and she slumped downstairs in her pajamas, hiding a yawn with her hand. “That smells heavenly,” she cooed to Harry, who was working over the stove. The general rule of the house was that while Ginny generally handled dinner, it was Harry who did breakfast. “Gin still asleep?”

 

“Of course. It'll take a stinging hex to get her out of bed on a Saturday with no children,” he laughed. “How many rashers?”

 

“Three,” she sighed, stretching a bit. “Is that pancakes, also?”

 

“Blueberry.”

 

“Wonderful,” she said, in a dreamy tone. He gave her her plate and made one of his own. She realized it was already a little after eight in the morning – but then, given the time they went to bed, that was still fairly early. Harry had become quite the early bird since starting his Auror training.

 

They ate in contented silence, listening to the birds chirp outside.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Ow! Ginny, stop, give me a second,” she complained. Ginny was currently tweezing her eyebrows. Hermione did that already, generally speaking, although Ginny had suddenly decided that her shape was 'all wrong' and it would have to be _refined_ by Ginny's careful hands.

 

“Don't be a baby. You've _never_ shaped these. You just pull out the strays, don't you?” she accused.

 

“What's wrong with their shape?”

 

“Oh, Merlin, Hermione, you are an absolute mess.”

 

After the tweezing, they'd had themselves a little 'spa-day' afternoon, alternating between soaking in the bath and getting their legs silky smooth. Harry had ended up leaving to meet Ron for a late lunch, insisting that the flowery smells was choking him and he was liable to start changing genders if he had to stay in that environment for one moment longer.

 

He was back in time to start getting dressed. When he heard Ginny and Hermione arguing over the dress Ginny had picked out, he snuck past Hermione's room, hoping to not be called in for his opinion.

 

“Harry!” He flinched. Damn it. “Harry, come in here and tell Hermione she looks fine.”

 

“It's too revealing,” Hermione whined, as Harry pushed the door open. The dress was a deep burgundy, and dipped far below Hermione's usual stopping point at the collar, revealing a lot more cleavage than he was used to seeing from his friend. She was trying to tug it up a bit to better cover herself, and Ginny slapped her hands away.

 

The dress had off-the-shoulder sleeves, more like a wide band, really. It fell all the way to the floor, but a slit up the side bared her leg past the knee.

 

“It's not too revealing. Harry,” Ginny said, leveling a glare on him that made it clear that he was to agree with his wife and not say anything stupid.

 

“It looks lovely, Hermione.”

 

“You're just saying that because Ginny's here,” Hermione said, frowning at him through the reflection. Ginny had already done her make-up, keeping it understated (probably by Hermione's insistence), and she'd already applied the charm to her hair before putting it up in a messy chignon. Curls broke free of it, curling around her neck and face a bit.

 

“No, honestly. You look beautiful.”

 

She looked faintly mollified, staring at her reflection. “Alright,” she sighed. “I suppose it's too late to change, anyway.”

 

“Wonderful. I'm going to slip into my dress, and you, don't touch any of the magic I did on you,” Ginny warned her, before slipping out of the room, pulling Harry along with her.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Ron met them at 12 Grimmauld Place with Susan, who was positively beaming with delight. The Malfoys had a certain reputation for parties, after all.

 

Hermione had to be calmed and coaxed again before stepping into the Floo, but finally, they managed to pull her through.

 

They spilled into a small room, with the French doors opening to the outside. In the expansive gardens, people teemed and milled, chatting with each other. Fairy lights danced above like swirling stars, and the place had been charmed to sort of resemble what Hermione had always imagined the land of fairy _would_ look like.

 

“Cor,” Ron breathed. “Look at this _food_.”

 

He was already at the refreshments table, staring in lovestruck awe at the expanse of food. Susan was smiling, and followed him as he began piling up his plate, moving down the table and then onto the next table. Ginny rolled her eyes, and turned to Harry. “If there's dancing, you're dancing with me.”

 

Harry issued a long-suffering groan, and let himself be pulled off in search of a dance floor.

 

Leaving Hermione alone.

 


	14. Frozen Solid

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fourteen: Frozen Solid**

 

…

 

As Hermione stood alone, abandoned by her coupled-off friends, she reflected: _See, Ron, this is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about_. ‘No hierarchy,’ he said. ‘There’s no ranking,’ he said.

  
  


Utter bollocks.

  
  


Sighing, she picked her way down the steps in her heels, onto the paved stone of the gardens. She saw a flash of blonde hair and perked up a bit, but it was only Lucius, turning to give her a slow, smug blink. She made a face at him. What a bastard.

  
She’d been about to continue down the path, but he broke apart from his current conversational partners and moved towards her. “Hermione. I see your other plans were nullified.”

  
  


“That was sneaky,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  
  


The tiniest little flicker at the corners of his lips betrayed the slightest smile. “It took some time for us to come to the decision. Narcissa wanted you to come, you see, but we weren’t sure if it would be worth having to order double the food to accommodate Mister Weasley.”

  
  


The dry tone almost reminded her of Draco’s, and despite herself, Hermione snorted and started to laugh. “You _only_ got double? You’ll be completely out in a matter of minutes.”

  
  


His eyes warmed just a hint, but it was enough to surprise her. Apparently making fun of Ron was something she could bond with even Lucius Malfoy about. It kind of made her feel like a bad friend, but… well, it wasn’t anything she wouldn’t say (and hadn’t said) to Ron’s face. Ron never even had the grace to look embarrassed by the fact that he sucked down petite hors d'oeuvres like a man half-starved to death.

  
  


He turned a bit, extending an elbow. “Would you care to dance?”

  
  


“I suppose that depends,” she said, although she put her hand in the crook of his arm anyway and allowed him to lead her through the garden. “Do the backhanded compliments come _free_ with the dance, or are those an extra charge?”

  
  


“Oh, those are complimentary,” he assured her, making her chuckle again.

  
  


Maybe she just missed Draco. She’d never found Lucius to be particularly funny before, but the dry humor was somewhat similar to his son’s -- although Draco’s also contained a dash of silliness that she found a bit more compelling. “Truly? I’m so lucky. What will it be, today?” she asked, smiling up at him. “‘I’ve seen piles of flaming garbage that certainly looked worse than you, Hermione. I’m sure our grandchildren won’t be utterly unfortunate’?”

  
  


“That’s a backhanded compliment of a fairly high level. I was going to save it for your wedding day,” he said, solemnly.

  
  


She burst out laughing, having to slow a bit as she walked. Lucius, as always, didn’t deign to do things as pedestrian as _laughing_ out loud, but there was an ease to his expression as he indulgently waited for her bout of mirth to come to a conclusion. When it did, he gently urged her along the path again.

  
  


“You’re an utter bastard, Lucius Malfoy, do you know that?” she asked him, although her eyes were still dancing with amusement.

  
  


“I should hope I do. It is mentioned no less than thrice daily in the _Daily Prophet_. Not to mention I have been meticulously cultivating this personality from a very young age.”

  
  


“But not from birth? Am I to imagine that there was a toddler version of Lucius Malfoy that had cherubic cheeks and desperately wanted a kitten?” Good God, she really _did_ miss Draco, if she was sitting here teasing his terrifying father. As little as two weeks ago, she was pretty sure she would have never attempted this.

  
  


He made a _tsk_ noise. “You should attempt to spend as much time studying the invitees to a party of this caliber as you did doing your homework in school, Hermione. I detest cats.”

  
  


“Why!”

  
  


“Because the nature of your work requires a level of socializing, and you will be more proficient if you make it a habit to know everyone intimately before meeting them,” he answered, deliberately misunderstanding her question.

  
  


She made a frustrated noise. “I meant, why do you detest cats?” she asked, persistent.

  
  


He cut her a sidelong glance. “I find them to be purposeless. They do not hunt game large enough to provide sustenance, and they are capricious and cold-hearted companions.” As he spoke, they came upon the dance floor -- a large courtyard. The music was still going, and he waited along the edges for it to conclude.

  
  


“Well, some cats have more affectionate personalities than others,” she conceded. “But some of them are quite cuddly. I take it you’re a ‘dog person’?”

  
Lucius didn't reply immediately, parsing that title with obvious distaste. “I am a person whom would prefer a dog over a cat if presented with one to employ as an animal companion,” he said, carefully. “I have hunting hounds.”

 

She frowned. _Hunting_ hounds. The wizarding world had always been like a little step back in time, but talking to the Malfoys was like being thrown straight back to the eighteenth century sometimes. “What do you hunt?” she wondered. What could possibly be the point of using hounds to hunt when one had magic?

 

“Nothing. My father liked to hunt stags,” he said. “Although I do not utilize the kennel as he did, I have not liquidated it.”

 

 _Liquidated_. “Do you always talk about everything as though it's strictly business?” Her head filled with thoughts of what Lucius Malfoy's bedroom talk might consist of, and she felt a stabbing sense of pity for Narcissa.

  
  


He actually chuckled, and she jerked her head up to stare at him in open shock. The sound was even _warm_ coming from him. As it died out, he sent her an amused look, and for a second she got the feeling that he knew exactly what she'd been thinking about just then. As she turned red, he murmured, “Not _everything_.”

 

Hermione was still flushed as the music ended, and he led her out onto the dance floor. When the music began, though, it was a bit quicker than she expected of a waltz.

 

She stared as the people around her began doing something that was definitely _not_ a waltz, and balked.

 

Lucius kept her to the edge of the dance floor. “Do you know how to dance the schottische?”

 

“The _what_?” Hermione took in the quick steps and the fanciful twirls with a growing sense of dread. “Oh, my God, what is the schottische? I cannot do what _those_ people are doing. I will end up sprawled on the floor.”

 

She felt Lucius push on her shoulders, placing her opposite him. She looked up at him in a panic. “I'm not kidding, I really don't know how to do this one.”

 

“I heard you,” he said, placid. “Place your toes outwards slightly. You lead the step with a slight kick.”

 

Her life had taken such a weird turn, she reflected, staring up at her future father-in-law. At the age of seventeen, Lucius Malfoy had been one of her mortal enemies, a Death Eater and one of Voldemort's prized right hand men for a time. Now, she was getting married to his son, and he was teaching her how to do a dance that didn't even look like the type of dance Lucius Malfoy deigned to do. The dance was too fanciful and energetic.

 

For some reason, she couldn't imagine him doing those little hops and twirls.

 

He lifted an eyebrow at her, and she flushed, realizing she hadn't done as he'd said. Looking down at her feet, she tried to put them in position. “Now what?”

 

“Look at mine.” He did the little kick, and it took all she had not to die laughing.

 

Instead, she mimicked the movement, slower.

 

He performed the hop, and she clumsily followed suit. Then, he hopped again, and she hastened to try to keep up with him. Midway into the third hop, she was already giggling madly as he twirled her around the dance floor at half the speed as the other dancers. He took her laughter in stride, looking austere and regal as he hopped and twirled around the dance floor like a 19th-century fop.

 

As she sort of got the hang of it, they sped up, and although her steps were far from perfect, she found that she was having _fun_. She turned and hopped with him, grinning and occasionally laughing. When she chanced the odd look up, she was always a little startled to see that he had the tiniest little smile on his face.

 

Maybe he was just amused at how easily amused she was – or at how she didn't know a dance that clearly every other pureblood in existence knew by heart.

 

In the end, Hermione didn't really care. She hopped and twirled and kicked around the dance floor, not doing the dance any sense of justice and really just not caring at all about that. She was almost sad when it ended, beaming up at Lucius with mirth still lighting up her eyes. “That was fun,” she said, a little out of breath. “Although not really conducive to chatting. You'll have to save your backhanded compliment for next time.”

 

“Then I am one behind. I will have to deliver two next time to catch up,” he mused, leaning down over her hand and brushing his lips politely over her knuckles. “Thank you for the dance, Hermione.”

 

“No, thank you for teaching me it. Was I as awful at it as I thought I was?”

 

“I don't think so.”

 

“I couldn't get the steps right at all.”

 

“My dear, no one was looking at your feet,” he assured her, leading her off the dance floor. She was too stunned by the endearment ('My dear'? Really?) to offer a response as he led her to Harry and Ginny, depositing her in their care. With an incline of his head, he greeted, “Mister and Missus Potter.” When they'd returned the greeting, he turned and left, walking away at a stately pace.

 

Ginny was staring at Hermione. “Have I gone insane,” she said, slowly. “Or were you just prancing around with Lucius Malfoy like a little elf?”

 

“I will never get that image out of my head,” Harry whispered, his own stare boring into the dance floor sightlessly. “He hopped. And he kicked. He twirled. He _twirled_ , Hermione, he _twirled_!”

 

Hermione was giggling again. “I know! I was there, you might recall.”

 

“He twirled,” Harry whispered again, his voice infused with horror.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Harry had left to go find some drinks for the three of them, leaving Ginny and Hermione chatting by the edge of the dance floor. They both idly watched the dancers. Hermione was surprised by some of the liveliness of the dances, witnessing the mazurka and the gallop. For some reason, she thought every ballroom dance was some variant of the waltz; gliding and elegant. It was really unsettling to see the high-bred upper pureblood caste hopping around and having fun.

 

“You know, it looked really sweet,” Ginny said, thoughtfully.

 

Hermione blinked, looking at her. “What did?”

 

“Him teaching you. Mr. Malfoy.” Ginny looked at her. “He didn't strike me as a very patient man. I mean, maybe patient when it comes to nefarious plotting, but not when it comes to teaching someone how to dance for the first time. And he was willing to look like an idiot with you, too. It just seemed very... very sweet,” she finally settled on, giving up on finding the perfect word to describe it.

 

Not sure how to take that, Hermione fell silent, and thanked her lucky stars when Harry showed up with three champagne glasses clutched precariously in his hands. She took one and sipped at it for a while, using it as a reason to remain quiet.

 

Meanwhile, her eyes were traveling around the dance courtyard, looking for...

 

Sod it. She was looking for Draco.

 

Sighing a bit when she didn't see him, she turned her attention back to Harry and Ginny, who were arguing good-naturedly about whether the champagne probably cost more than a month's salary. “Did you see Ron anywhere?”

 

“Oh, he's by the food, still,” Harry said, sighing and shaking his head. “If Susan weren't in the picture, I think he'd propose to that buffet table.”

 

Ginny was watching Hermione. “You're scanning around an awful lot. Looking for someone?” she asked, innocently.

 

“No.”

 

“I didn't see him,” Harry said. Then, he clarified (unnecessarily): “Malfoy, I mean. Do you think he's not here?”

 

She wasn't sure if she was more relieved or more disappointed at the prospect that he might not be. Lucius hadn't given her any reason to think he wouldn't be here, though. “I should find Narcissa and thank her for inviting us,” she decided.

 

“Oh, good, we'll pretend that's not just a thinly veiled attempt to find your ferret soulmate,” Ginny assured her, smiling widely when Hermione shot her a grumpy glare.

 

“He's not my soulmate,” she sniffed, and then turned to stalk off before Ginny could make fun of her any more.

 

She took a few trails through the gardens, looking for any flash of that platinum blonde hair. She saw Lucius once, engaged in a conversation with a few of his pureblooded compatriots – sour looking men who would probably sooner hex her than greet her hello – and slipped away before she was noticed.

 

Seeing another bit of blonde, she started for it, assuming it was Narcissa, only to stop short when she realized it wasn't.

 

Draco was talking to Pansy, a slight smirk on his face as she told him a story. Blaise was at his side, looking boredly around the garden, as if waiting for something more interesting to come along and grab his attention.

 

Hermione quickly ducked behind a hedge.

 

Damn it. Groaning softly to herself, she whispered, “Coward, coward, coward.” Facing Draco alone would be hard enough, but in front of his Slytherin friends? If he shot her down in front of Blaise and Pansy, she didn't think she'd _ever_ recover.

 

Okay, maybe that was melodramatic. But it didn't mean she wanted to do it.

 

Turning, she snuck away from the Slytherin group, deciding to actually focus on finding Narcissa instead. Narcissa, at least, would be nice to her. She knew that much.

 

True to form, the Malfoy matriarch was standing among a drove of people, effortlessly holding their attention. Her dress looked like something a queen might wear in a fairytale, a striking dark blue number embroidered with a peacock feather motif. Hermione edged towards the group, not sure how to grab Narcissa's attention.

 

She needn't have worried.

 

Narcissa's bright blue eyes caught against hers, and the woman gasped and whirled a bit to face her. “Hermione, darling. I am _so_ glad you could come,” she said, striding towards her.

 

Smiling wryly, Hermione grimaced a bit. “Sorry for declining at first, it was just...”

 

She'd hoped to trail off and let Narcissa cut her off with an _Oh, it's alright, darling, don't worry about it!_ However, Narcissa just waited, smiling curiously.

 

Hermione flushed a bit. “Uh... Just... I don't... I don't know.”

 

“Regardless, I am very happy to see you. I haven't seen you in weeks,” she added. “I suppose that's partially my own fault. I've been very busy, lately. We should meet for tea – out of the Manor, I think. I know an excellent shop.”

 

Relieved, Hermione nodded. “That sounds wonderful.”

 

“I heard you and my husband made quite a scene at the dance floor,” Narcissa added, a little bit of mischief trickling into her tone.

 

The curly-haired witch flushed brightly, laughing self-deprecatingly. “Oh, yes, he was teaching me the... what was it? Schottische,” she said. “I'm sure everyone will be having a laugh at the memory of me tripping through the steps for the next several days. I'll consider it an early Christmas gift to all attendees,” she added, in a dry tone.

 

“Don't be silly, darling. I heard you were radiant,” the blonde woman assured her. “You'll find that when it comes to dancing, the steps don't matter so much as looking happy and like you're having fun.”

 

She nodded, slowly. “I did have fun. Your husband was being oddly nice.” She pressed her lips together, embarrassed at speaking so candidly. “Not that he... isn't usually,” she fumbled to add. “What I mean is... well... He was very nice,” she finished, lamely.

 

Narcissa laughed, delighted. “Lucius may act the ice queen, proverbially speaking, but it is without bias that I tell you that he is the kindest, most devoted man I've ever known.”

 

Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from responding, because she was sure she should say something polite. However, she knew if she opened her mouth, she'd just bark out a laugh and an incredulous, _Yeah, right_! Instead, she nodded. “I'm glad I came,” she admitted. Now if she could only get Draco _alone_ somewhere to apologize.

 

Smiling warmly, Narcissa said, “We are, too. All of us,” she added, pointedly. At Hermione's raised eyebrows, she gave a narrow look. “Yes, I mean Draco.”

 

“I don't think he knows I'm even here, yet,” Hermione reminded her. He hadn't seen her when she'd stumbled upon him and his friends.

 

“Of course he does. The second you arrived, all anyone was talking about was the fact that you and your friends were here,” Narcissa said, with a shrug. “And then, ten minutes later, that you and Lucius were dancing and that you were obviously having a great time.”

 

Hermione frowned, alarmed. “Everyone was talking about us?”

 

“You do realize you're still quite famous?” At Hermione's stupid stare, Narcissa's own eyebrows shot up. “I see.”

 

“I mean, I guess-- Yes, I knew. I suppose,” she said, awkwardly. Yes, she knew she was still famous. But not _celebrity_ famous. People didn't give her free stuff when she went into stores, or anything. Nobody asked for her autograph. She didn't notice preferential treatment.

 

So, eventually, she'd rather forgotten about it, letting it fade until it was just a background hum in her mind.

 

Narcissa was watching her carefully, and Hermione realized with a jolt that she was being _calculated._ She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. For all Narcissa's warmth and cheery demeanor, the woman had still been a Slytherin, and had managed to survive being married to a man in Voldemort's inner circle who had fallen suddenly out of favor. She couldn't be stupid to have done all that.

 

Hermione had to remind herself, sometimes, just what she was dealing with when it came to these Malfoys. The way they acted wasn't necessarily the way they _were_.

 

Even if they put on a bloody good show.

 

“In any case, I do hope you find Draco soon. I keep telling him, if you don't make up properly somewhat soon, we'll never be able to have an August wedding,” Narcissa sighed, sadly.

 

Urk. The damn summer wedding.

 

And here it was, almost _June_. Swallowing awkwardly, Hermione said, “Yes, well, I hope we do make up.” Better just to ignore all those heavy-handed hints about summer weddings. “I suppose I should find Ron before he finishes eating everything.”

 

“Come see me again tonight, before you leave?” Narcissa asked, reaching forward to grasp Hermione's hands, squeezing them a bit.

 

“Of course.”

 

With that, Narcissa released her with a dazzling smile, turning back to her throngs of admirers. Exhaling roughly, Hermione turned, heading back down the path towards the buffet. Sometimes, being with Narcissa could be tiring; the woman brought such an energy to everything that Hermione felt the need to try and match it, which quickly sapped her strength.

 

She made it to the refreshments, and rolled her eyes when she caught sight of that familiar mop of red hair. Moving towards him, she grabbed his arm, hauling him away from the table.

 

“Hey!”

 

“You realize this food was meant to service almost a hundred people?” she asked, archly. “I'm pretty sure you've put at least half of it into your black hole of a stomach already.”

 

“I haven't even eaten that much!” he defended. “Susan asked me to dance twice already. And those dances are _long_.”

 

“Where is Susan, anyway?” Hermione glanced around for her.

 

Ron did, too, looking bewildered. Guilt trickled into his expression as he admitted, “Blimey, I don't know. I think she left to-- She said _something_ about finding something or someone-- I was a little distracted by these tarts I found at the time--”

 

Hermione stared at him, incredulous. “You must be joking.”

 

“Don't you judge me! This food is amazing.”

 

“So amazing you _lost your future wife_?” At his silence, she put her hands on her hips. “No more buffet, for you. I'm cutting you off. Go find Susan, you great big idiot.”

 

“You can't _boss me around_ when we're not dating,” he whined. “It's against the rules!”

 

“ _Go_ ,” Hermione ordered, pointing away from the table.

 

Like a kicked dog, he sent her a sullen look and sulkily wormed his way into the crowd. Hermione returned her hands to her hips, holding up a post by the buffet table for a moment to make sure he didn't try and sneak back for one last snack.

 

“Impressive.”

 

Hermione jolted, turning. Blaise was picking over the buffet idly. Anxiety gripped her, and Hermione darted her eyes around to look for Draco. Seeing no sign of him, she relaxed a smidge. “Good evening, Zabini.”

 

“Blaise will do,” he said, looking up at her. He smiled – obviously he was more free with his smiles than his fellow Slytherins – but it didn't look very genuine. “So what did it take to get him properly socialized?”

 

She snorted. “Years of patient clicker-training,” she muttered.

 

Blaise laughed, a barking sound that seemed a bit too abrupt. However, when she looked at him again, his smile seemed more genuine, his teeth flashing. “Funny. You never struck me as the funny type.”

 

“To be honest, I'm not actually the funny type,” she admitted. “Every once in a while I just have impeccable timing. It's a rare occurrence you'll likely never witness again.”

 

“I'm not sure about that.” He shrugged, though, picking up a plate and putting a few hors d'ouevres on it.

 

Silence lingered awkwardly between them before she broke it. “So how have you been?”

 

“Well enough, I suppose. My wedding is next month.”

 

“Who'd you get paired with?”

 

“Penelope Clearwater.”

 

A Ravenclaw. And a few years older, if Hermione recalled. “She was a few years ahead of us. Do you like her?”

 

“We don't have much to speak about. I don't imagine that will change during or after her pregnancies.”

 

Hermione grimaced a bit at his impartial tone. “I see. Sorry, I suppose.”

 

He didn't look too concerned. “We will see other people in between,” he said. “We'd already decided that. She doesn't much care for me, and I find her rather dull.”

 

How sad.

 

“Did Parkinson get matched, yet?” Hermione wondered.

 

The smile formed slowly on Blaise's features: pure schadenfreude. “Justin Finch-Fletchley.”

 

Hermione's eyes widened. “He must be terrified,” she murmured, recalling Justin's various acts of cowardice at Hogwarts. She didn't imagine he'd be able to 'get it up' with Pansy glaring at him, and flinched a bit in sympathy.

 

“Oh, yes. It's delightful to watch,” he agreed. “And how are things going with Draco?”

 

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it. Had Draco told his friends about the fiasco at her flat? It was impossible to really tell; Blaise wasn't acting particularly smug, but then, that didn't really mean anything. “It's...”

 

“Yes?” Blaise asked, gazing at her intently.

 

“Well enough,” came a drawling voice from behind her. A hand slid around her waist as Draco stepped into place at her side, his eyes half-lidded.

 

Blaise's gaze flicked away from her as soon as Draco appeared, and the man shrugged again and turned away without so much as a goodbye. Hermione watched him go, feeling unsettled and not really certain as to why. She felt like there was a huge undercurrent of things that had just happened between the two men that she could spend years studying and never truly understand.

 

Banishing the thoughts, she turned to him, opening her mouth. At his cold look, she let her mouth slam shut again, feeling her teeth hit each other. “Draco...”

 

“It would be in your best interests to stay away from Blaise,” he said, coolly. He didn't explain further, dropping his hand from her waist and turning away to begin mingling again.

 

“Wh-- no, wait. Draco,” she called after him, but he didn't stop, and soon he'd disappeared into the crowd.

 

She stared at the spot he'd disappeared from, feeling deflated and empty.

 


	15. A Deeper Freeze

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifteen: The Deeper Freeze**

 

…

 

 _Well_ , she thought, bitterly, as she realized Draco really had just left her and was not returning. _That could have gone better_.

 

So much for Narcissa's assurance that Draco was glad she'd decided to come.

 

Hermione meandered away from the food, finding that she had no appetite anymore. In fact, all she wanted to do was go home, now. Sighing gustily, she headed through the crowds to try and find her friends, knowing she couldn't very well leave this early into the party. Besides, she'd promised Narcissa that she'd see her again before she left, and that woman would never let her go home this early.

 

Harry and Ginny were dancing when she found them, both attempting to do justice to the polka. They looked about as bad as she probably had doing the schottische with Lucius.

 

After watching them laugh together, though, Hermione had to admit that Narcissa was right. Watching two people dance beautifully was nice, but watching two people have the time of their lives together was by far better. The dance finally ended, and they both stumbled off the dance floor, eyes twinkling. She weaved through the crowd to get to them.

 

“You both looked like a bunch of stomping trolls,” she informed them.

 

“As long as Ginny was a stomping troll with me, I don't care,” Harry said, with a dumb grin on his face. “We can be stomping trolls together.”

 

“My gallant little troll-man,” Ginny cooed, pushing up to press a quick kiss to his mouth. He laughed into it, returning it for a moment before Hermione coughed. Loudly. To remind them that they were in public. Ginny pulled back with a broad smile and turned to her. “So, did you find him?”

 

“Ron?” Hermione asked, innocently, and received a punch. “Ginny! Damn it,” she hissed, rubbing her shoulder. “Yes, I found Malfoy.”

 

“And?”

 

“And he still hates me,” she hissed. “Happy?”

 

Ginny frowned. “Did you apologize?”

 

“I tried. He wouldn't stop long enough to give me the chance,” she muttered. “Just turned and walked off.”

 

“Well, if years of feuding with him at school taught me anything, it's that he can hold an impressive grudge,” Harry mused. “Perhaps in another seven years, he'll find you tolerable again.”

 

“You're _such_ a comfort to me, in these trying times.”

 

“Well, sod Malfoy, then,” Ginny decided. “If he won't give you the time of day, I guess you've no choice but to wait until he thaws out.”

 

Harry shook his head. “I think you should try one more time. Third time's the charm, isn't it?”

 

She groaned. “Oh, I don't know if I can try again, tonight. You didn't see him, Harry. He was so cold. I'm sure he wants very little to do with me for the foreseeable future.”

 

He didn't look convinced, but he said, “Alright, then. If you're sure.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The next time a gallop started on the floor, Harry passed his plate of food to Ginny. “Hermione, you're joining me for this one,” he said, yanking her out onto the floor.

 

“Wait, my champagne!”

 

“Got it,” Ginny said, deftly plucking it from Hermione's hand.

 

As Harry pulled Hermione out onto the floor, grinning breathlessly, Hermione couldn't help but smile. “You and your wife make quite the team. And people say _I'm_ bossy.”

 

“You are bossy,” he said, cheerfully, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the first hop.

 

They did as abominably as he and Ginny had, but Harry's good mood was infectious, and soon they were both tripping over each other and laughing, grabbing at each other's hands and shoulders in a vain attempt to keep themselves both upright. “We're awful at this,” she gasped, running out of breath a few minutes into the song.

 

“Bloody terrible,” he agreed, delighted.

 

She tripped over his foot, and nearly went arse-over-teakettle, yelping with surprise. Harry managed to catch her up, although he had to stop dancing as they both clung to each other, laughing uproariously. Finally, he pushed towards the edge of the dance floor, hugging Hermione with a dumb smile on his face.

 

“You know, I'm glad the ferret's giving you the cold shoulder. Now you get to spend the whole night having fun with us,” he murmured.

 

She grinned as she pulled back from his hug. When they made their way back to Ginny, she'd set their plate and champagne glasses down so she could lean against a marble statue of an ancestral Malfoy, laughing so hard tears were streaming down her face. “Oh, my face hurts,” she complained, between peals of mirth. “And my sides. Help me. Someone stop me.”

 

“No, I hope you _die_ of laughter,” Hermione said, poking her in the ribs.

 

“You,” Ginny gasped for air. “Were so bad. So bad.”

 

“Get ahold of yourself,” Hermione commanded, though she was starting to laugh, herself. “You're making everyone stare.”

 

“Oh, like you didn't do a damn good job of that with your hapless jumping around out there,” Ginny wheezed. She doubled over, laughing so hard she winced in pain. “I think I just burst my appendix.”

 

“Serves you right. I'll have you know that I found Hermione to be very graceful,” Harry said, primly.

 

“Stop!” Ginny gasped, clutching her sides.

 

“Like a gazelle,” Harry added.

 

“Oh, Merlin, please stop,” Ginny whimpered, collapsing against the statue a bit.

 

Ron appeared, and Hermione was glad to note that Susan was at his side; apparently he'd found her. Ron stared at Ginny. “What's gotten into her?”

 

Hermione shrugged, and Harry said, “Who knows?”

 

Ginny wheezed, red-faced, and pointed accusingly at Hermione, but she couldn't get the breath to explain what had her dying of laughter. Susan was starting to chuckle sympathetically at Ginny's pained expression, and moved towards the woman to pat her on the back. The redhead straightened, pushing her hand into her side. “Oh, that really hurts,” Ginny breathed.

 

“Now I'm really curious,” Susan admitted.

 

“Hermione danced the gallop with Harry,” Ginny mumbled, exhausted from her intense bouts of laughter. “It was the worst and best thing I've ever seen. They both have three left feet.”

 

“Oh, just now?” Ron demanded. “I can't _believe_ I missed that.”

 

“Well, speaking of dancing...” Susan smiled hopefully up at Ron.

 

“No! Stop that, I can't say no to you when you do that face,” Ron complained, trying to turn away from her. Susan followed him doggedly, maintaining her hopeful smile all the while. He finally stopped, heaving a sigh as he grabbed her hand. “You realize that I am the _best_ boyfriend?”

 

“No arguments here,” she said, solemnly, but her grin broke free soon after. The music ended, and she yanked him onto the dance floor.

 

For all his whinging and complaining, though, Hermione had to admit that Ron looked happy to be out there with her. “They are rather cute together, aren't they?” she said, a bit wistfully.

 

Ginny nodded. “Makes you want to be sick all over the hedges.”

 

Hermione snickered, and even Harry started to laugh, even though he slapped his palm over his mouth to try to keep it in.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Eventually, her appetite returned, and she announced that she was heading back to the buffet table. At this point, both Harry and Ron thrust their empty plates at her, ignoring her protests that she wasn't their _maid_.

 

“Fine, then I'll just leave this right here,” Ron said, picking the plate back up and stooping down to shove it under a hedge. “In the dirt.”

 

“Stop it! Oh, give it to me,” she grumbled. He grinned and dumped it back in her hands. “You're such an idiot.”

 

Ginny put her empty champagne glass on top of the top plate, and widened her eyes innocently at Hermione's glare. “What? You're going there _anyway_.”

 

Harry quickly drained his glass and balanced his glass next to Ginny's.

 

Hermione stared at him. “Anyone _else_ want to fob their personal sense of responsibility on me?” she demanded, shrilly. Ron and Susan began chugging their champagne, Ron holding up a finger to silently ask her to wait one minute, and Hermione groaned in frustration. “I don't know why I'm friends with any of you,” she said, crossly, as they both carefully shoved their glasses next to the other two on her tiny stack of plates.

 

“You know, I never understood why, either,” Ron admitted, grinning.

 

She shot him the stink-eye and turned to head back through the party, carefully avoiding bumping into people. She didn't want to drop one of these fancy glasses. She was pretty sure they were crystal. As she entered the refreshments area, she caught Lucius watching her curiously, and scowled a bit as she set all the dirty dishes on the designated tray.

 

They disappeared instantaneously.

 

As soon as they did, Lucius was by her side. “How are you enjoying the evening, Hermione?”

 

“Well enough,” she said, turning to face him. “Apparently being hungry made me the unlucky sod who had to run the dishes up. And they say chivalry isn't dead.”

 

He tilted his head, considering it. “It's in a deep slumber. I saw you with those plates and glasses several minutes ago, for instance, and I _ensured_ that my conversation lasted long enough that I would not be provided the opportunity to take them from you.”

 

Staring at him, she put her hands on her hips. “You magnificent arsehole,” she enunciated, earning another one of those barely-there smiles.

 

He stepped past her, grabbing a _clean_ plate and handing it to her, since she'd mentioned she was hungry.

 

“That doesn't make up for it,” she informed him, primly, but she turned to the buffet and began picking her way along it. She was a lot pickier than Ron, mostly out of conscientiousness for how much food was wasted at parties like these; she didn't want to pick something up and find out she didn't like it. “I danced the _gallop_ with Harry earlier.”

 

“Yes, I know. It became a very engaging topic of conversation for ten minutes,” he said, meandering slowly beside her. “I suppose your lack of skills are made up for by your _enthusiasm_.”

 

She looked at him, holding up a finger. “That's one. You owe me two of those,” she said, referring to the backhanded compliment.

 

He looked up at the dancing fairy lights as he thought. “You are, at least, gifted at carrying empty plates and glasses to the designated area, if not at the finer social graces,” he finally settled on. At her snort, he added, “Although considering how many pieces of flatware and dinnerware I tend to find hidden under bushes months after the fact, I suppose I would prefer the former to the latter.”

 

Hermione started laughing. “You didn't let that one stay backhanded. I think you're losing your touch.”

 

“Don't underestimate me, Hermione.”

 

Smiling, she turned back to the buffet to pluck a tiny piece of roasted meat on a stick off, putting it on her plate. It looked like duck, but she wasn't entirely sure. She was sobering a bit without the charming aura of her friends, recalling her failed attempt at speaking to Draco. “Lucius...” she began, but she wrinkled her nose. She didn't think she could ask Lucius for _help_ , even if he _was_ being strangely un-awful.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Nothing,” she murmured.

 

“Were you going to ask for my assistance in reconciling with my son?” he asked, in the most _polite_ tone, like he was simply commenting on the weather.

 

She turned to stare at him, and then demanded, “Are you a Legilimens?”

 

“It is in my best interest to know what events are occurring around me.”

 

“That's not what I asked.”

 

“I'm aware.”

 

She glared at him, pursing her lips a bit, and grabbed an olive tart off the table. She recalled seeing these at the last party, and she'd liked them. “I _suppose_ I was going to try and determine your opinion on the matter. Being as he won't even exchange more than a sentence with me at a time, you seemed like you'd know what to do,” she muttered.

 

“What have you attempted to do at this time?”

 

“Altogether?” At his nod, she murmured, “I sent him an owl asking to meet, but was shot down. That was a few weeks ago. Then tonight--”

 

“So in the intervening time, you have done nothing.”

 

“He seemed like he wanted his space!” she said, defensively, although she recalled the talking-to her friends had given to her the night before and flushed guiltily.

 

“I see,” he said. “So, tonight?”

 

“Well, Blaise was talking to me, and asked me how things were going with Draco. Draco appeared to say they were going fine, told me to not talk to Blaise for some reason, and all but ran off as I tried to apologize.”

 

Lucius was silent, assessing the story. “That is interesting,” he finally said.

 

“Is it?” she asked, in a cross tone. “You know, you're supposed to be helping _me_ , not bleeding me for information.”

  
“I don't recall agreeing to assist you.”

 

She gasped, jaw dropping indignantly. “It was _implied_.”

 

“Implications are meaningless,” he said, picking a piece of lint off of his sleeve. “Relying on them will make you far less effective.”

  
“Effective at _what_?”

 

“Anything.”

 

She glared at him, picking up the olive tart. “So you're _not_ going to help me,” she guessed.

 

“There will come a point where you will simply have to swallow your pride at not knowing something and learn to navigate the sticky waters of interpersonal socialization yourself,” he informed her. He sounded like some kind of professor. A professor of social engineering, maybe. His tone had a way of expressing hope and disappointment in her all at the same time that _definitely_ reminded her of a professor. “If you are too afraid--” She bristled at that. “To make a mistake, you will not be able to refine your talents in that area.”

 

“You can't refine what isn't there,” she muttered. She was bollocks at talking to people in the smooth and graceful way the Malfoys employed.

 

“Despite what others may tell you about the virtues of humility, having a low opinion of yourself is a self-crippling waste of time,” he said, and beneath his placid tone there was a little sharpness, too. “I do not believe I need to inform you of your duties to my son or remind you of the choices you have to make.”

 

Duties towards his _son_? Just _what_ duties would _those_ be?

 

She sighed, knowing he was right. She knew what she had to do, she just really didn't _like_ it and had been hoping to avoid _ever_ having to do it: She was going to have to swallow her pride and beg for forgiveness, knowing that there was a chance that Draco wasn't going to forgive her. A fairly large chance, at that, if his behavior was anything to go by.

 

And in the likely event that he still didn't forgive her, she'd have to swallow her pride _again_ and do it all over.

 

“This sucks,” she declared, popping the meat morsel (it _was_ duck) into her mouth.

 

“Indeed,” he agreed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Finding Draco that time was almost hilariously easy, like the universe was just dying for an opportunity to watch her humiliate herself. He was with Pansy again, telling her something that was making the witch laugh. Hermione balked a bit, but forced herself forward. She had not wanted to do this with an audience, especially one that seemed to bring out Draco's prattish tendencies, but if she didn't do it _now_ , then she risked making the damage all the worse.

 

“Draco,” she said, when she was close enough. He turned to her, his eyes narrowing a smidgen. Pansy followed suit, sneering at her. When neither of them did anything but wait expectantly, she inhaled carefully and forced herself to blaze forward. “Can I talk to you?”

 

“Isn't that what you're doing?” he said, unimpressed.

 

 _I meant alone, you git_. Gritting her teeth a bit, she glanced at Pansy and then back at him, and realized that he had _no_ intention of going anywhere private with her. He was making this hard for her on purpose, his expression flat and cold. “Alright,” she said, trying to gather her courage when Pansy was staring holes into her face. Straightening her spine, she said, “I wanted to apologize.”

 

He just waited. _Slimy, stuck-up arsehole_ , her mind whispered. She ignored it.

 

“I'm sorry,” she said.

 

“For what?” he asked, cocking his head slightly. His tone suggested he had no idea what she was talking about.

 

Did he _really_ want her to explain what had happened in front of Pansy? Apparently. “For that night,” she grit out, flicking her eyes towards Pansy again. The witch was watching her with interest, now. “For the pod. I bought it months ago, before I knew you very well. After I suggested artificial insemination, you made some comments that frightened me, and I asked my friend for help. Then, I forgot about it, because it's charmed to not really be noticeable,” she muttered. She should tell George to remove that charm. “And so it was still there when we, um--” She glanced at Pansy again, distinctly uncomfortable.

 

“When we?” he prompted, coolly.

 

She shut her eyes, feeling her face heat. “When I brought you into my flat after dinner,” she said. She heard Pansy gasp.

 

“Oh, my God, you were going to shag him _already_?” Pansy asked, incredulous, and started to laugh. “You really have no class, do you? I know he's cute, Granger, but I'd think you should have some self-respect. Just because you're a Mudblood doesn't mean you should lift your dress for everyone.”

 

Hermione stared at her, and then realized with a painful twist of her insides that Draco was actually smirking and laughing along with his old girlfriend.

 

She set her jaw, feeling anger begin to seep into her even as her eyes began to tear up. But she would die before she shed one single bloody tear in front of Pansy _fucking_ Parkinson. “I suppose you're right,” she said, a little sharply, her voice cool. “To want to sleep with a man I find attractive in the year 2005, whatever was I thinking? I'm sure you have a much better time engaging in heavy petting in the three-minute intervals of alone-time you have while your parents sit in the next room.”

 

Pansy glared at her, her laughter dying. “That's because one's virginity is sacred,” she said, crisply. “If you're not intact when you first do it, you can never truly belong to your man.”

 

“Good,” Hermione said, flatly. “I can't imagine I'd want to belong to anyone. Especially not someone who believes that something as personal and lovely as sharing a night together is something only whores and filthy little Mudbloods do.” Her gaze slid to Draco, who wasn't laughing anymore, either. “The man I lost my virginity to saw me as a person rather than a hymen with some excess woman growing out of it, and I'm incredibly thankful to have had him, first. Otherwise, who knows how warped and rotten I might have turned out?”

 

With one last cool look, she turned, walking away from them both. She had nothing more to say to Draco Malfoy, anyway.

 

No, wait. She did.

 

She turned, marching back towards him, and was gratified to see his eyes widen a bit as his hand went towards the wand in his pocket. But she reached for his left hand, and took the ring off his finger. Then she used his fingers to take hers off, and deposited them both into his palm. He didn't say a word the entire time. “I don't think we've much use for these, anymore.”

 

With that, she turned, and strode away, turning around the nearest hedge.

 

As she turned the hedge, she nearly screamed when she almost ran directly into Lucius. Throwing a hand to her throat and managing not to squeal in surprise, she glared up at him. “I suppose you heard all that.”

 

His gaze was shuttered. “I did.”

 

Hermione looked at his face, and made a disgusted noise. “Regretting this union already, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, coldly. “Well, I'm sorry to say I can't exactly tap my lady-bits and go, _Reparo_. Not that I've any interest in doing so for the likes of your son.” She strode off, then, before she could give him a chance to respond.

 

Because she was pretty sure tears were around the corner, and she wanted to be somewhere safe when it happened.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She'd nearly made it to the Manor's open Floo before recalling that she'd promised to see Narcissa before she left. She stood in front of the fireplace, cursing herself. She really did want to start crying any second, but... Well, she'd promised. And she didn't want to break a promise to the only Malfoy that hadn't been a complete jerk.

 

Pulling herself together, Hermione braved the party again, striding through at top speed until she finally found the woman. She approached her, weaving through the people around her, and said, “You asked me to find you before I went home.”

 

Narcissa blinked at her, taking in her face. “What happened?” she asked, softly.

 

“Nothing worth mentioning,” she said, flatly. “Anyway, I do want to go home, now, and I wanted to thank you for a lovely party. My friends and I had a great time. You don't mind if they stay here without me, do you?”

 

“No, of course not,” Narcissa murmured, a little taken aback at the forceful way Hermione was speaking. She was used to dominating her conversations with the girl.

 

“Excellent. Thank you so much, for everything. And, you know, go ahead and start planning for August.” She smiled at Narcissa's shock, a little bitterly. “I don't really care anymore. There's no real reason to try and hold off. I'm pretty open to whatever you might have planned. I never really gave much thought to my wedding growing up.” That was a lie, but she didn't want to have to meet Narcissa at the Manor to plan the bloody thing.

 

She didn't intend to see Draco Malfoy for a long time.

 

With one last smile, she leaned forward to deposit a kiss on each of Narcissa's cheeks, and left before the blonde could form a single protest.

 

Walking through the party after that was a haze. She recalled shouldering through everyone and then getting to the Floo with a sense of relief. She threw the powder in and went to her flat, but not for long. She didn't think Draco would go there after all that, but she didn't want to run the risk.

 

“Sorry, Harry and Ginny,” she muttered, shrinking all of her things into an overnight bag and grabbing Crookshanks.

 

She was going to stay at 12 Grimmauld Place, for a while.

 


	16. A Balm, or Something

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixteen: A Balm, or Something**

 

…

 

It only took half an hour for her friends to realize she wasn't at the party anymore. By the time they spilled through the Floo to Harry's, Hermione was already out of the dress and in her pajamas, curled up on the couch as she read a book.

 

The four of them stared at her uncertainly. She certainly looked fine, except for the fact that she hadn't glanced up when they entered.

 

Also, Harry noticed that Crookshanks was sitting on one of the steps. "What happened?"

 

"Nothing important," Hermione said, her crisp tone making it clear she was lying. "I tried to apologize to Draco and he humiliated me in front of his friends and they called me a filthy Mudblooded whore for trying to sleep with him without being properly married. The usual. This and that."

 

Shocked silence filled the room.

 

"I'll kill him," Ron announced, turning towards the Floo. Susan grabbed his arm.

 

"Not that I'm not also angry," she said, softly. "But I don't think going back to their house to pulverize their son is the safest idea?"

 

Ginny's jaw was set. "She has a point, although I'm prepared to admit that I'd really love to hex that blonde bastard into a pile of screaming soup, right now," she said, her voice trembling with contained fury. "He really said all that?"

 

"Pansy did. Draco just laughed when she said it." Her tone was still cool.

 

It was Harry who finally moved towards her, silent. He sat on the edge of the recliner, sliding into the little space of the chair there. She fought him a bit, but in the end he was wedged next to her, pulling her towards him and wrapping his arms around her. She swallowed, hard, tears forming in her eyes. Trust Harry to be the one to immediately realize that she didn't need a champion, but a hug. Ginny followed suit, sitting on the other arm and leaning into Hermione, wrapping her arms around the curly-haired witch's neck.

 

Ron was pacing restlessly. Susan wasn't close enough to any of them to really join in on the proceedings, and she looked painfully awkward sitting to the side.

 

"Well, let it not be said that we didn't always know Malfoy was a moron and an arsehole," Harry finally muttered, giving Hermione a squeeze.

 

"Is it alright if I stay here?" Hermione whispered, swallowing hard again. Her throat felt bruised with the need to cry.

 

"Of course. As long as you want."

 

"I might call in sick Monday," she admitted. She doubted Draco would show up, although there was a slight chance he would. But mostly she just didn't think she'd be of any  _use_  until she managed to cry her hurt feelings out of her system.

 

Ginny nuzzled her a bit. "Perfectly understandable. Call out the _week_. I only have training on Thursday. Want to help me watch the boys?"

 

Hermione sighed, relief hitting her hard in the chest, like a hammer. "Yes. That sounds lovely."

  
  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  


On Sunday, Harry left to pick up the boys from their Aunt Tonks, and soon the house was filled with the cacophony of two small children running and screaming and playing. Normally, Hermione would have found the constant noise annoying, but right then, she was thankful for the distraction. Anything was better than thinking about Draco's lip curling into a smirk as he laughed with Pansy about what a slag she was.

 

She spent most of the day playing hide-and-seek with James, who mostly just stood somewhere in plain sight hiding his face. She made a big show of not knowing where he was before pouncing him and tickling him while he squealed and kicked.

 

On Monday, she sent the owl in, simply saying she wasn't feeling up to par and would need to take off until the following Monday. Her boss, generally a kind man (although quick to irritate), responded to let her know that she was always a conscientious employee whom had rarely taken advantage of her sick days in years past. He told her she had quite a few stacked up, enough to be out for a couple of weeks, and invited her to take it if she needed it. Hermione hoped that by Friday, she'd be over the small sense of betrayal.

 

After all, it was only _Malfoy_.

 

She mostly stuck to the house until Tuesday, when Ginny had  _demanded_  that Hermione accompany them all to the park. "You need to quit hiding in this house. You're not going to see him just because you went outside," she said, pushing Hermione towards her room. "So get dressed, because in ten minutes, I am  _dragging_  you out of this house whether you like it or not."

 

Sighing bitterly, but realizing that Ginny was right, Hermione pulled on jeans and a t-shirt.

 

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting on the grass, Ginny playing idly with Albus as James went down the slide about sixty times in a row. Hermione watched for a bit and then laid back. She was glad it was finally warming up; the grass felt nice. She closed her eyes against the sun. "You know, I never thought I'd say this, but it's nice to take some time off work."

 

"Well, that makes sense. You put so much more energy into whatever you're passionate about," Ginny murmured. "I think you have more passion in your little finger than a lot of people manage to accumulate in their whole lives. Worse yet, you have the discipline to actually focus it, unlike my stupid brother."

 

She sighed happily. "I just want what I do to  _matter_ _._ "

 

"It does," Ginny promised. "Even if it doesn't always work out, everything you do matters. The fact that you're trying leaves an impression on people."

 

Feeling content, Hermione fell silent, smiling as she folded her arms beneath her head. She listened to Albus babble about _a birb, a birb!_  Ginny nodded and confirmed that yes, it  _was_  a bird, and wasn't he a smart little boy. Before she knew it, Hermione was dozing off a little, basking in the warmth of the sun on the first day of June. She was going to end up missing Draco's birthday, she realized.

 

For the first time in a few days, though, thinking about him didn't make her heart twinge. And thinking about missing his birthday didn't make her feel any guilt.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She got the invite to his party anyway, although she rather thought Narcissa knew she wasn't going to attend. It was being held that Saturday, and Hermione glanced at the invitation and declined it immediately, sending it back with Prissy and a short note containing her apologies. Harry, Ginny, and Ron got invitations, too, but none of them hesitated any more than she did before marking  _not attending_ and returning the owls. She wondered if Lucius and Narcissa would have any other weird tricks up their sleeves to try and force her attendance.

 

No owls came after that, so she doubted it.

 

"Let's do something Saturday," Harry said. "Let's drop the boys off at 'Dromeda's and get out of here. Muggle London. Nightclubs. Like we used to do, before James came along and shriveled up my sense of fun and boyish spirit."

 

Ginny laughed, kicking Harry in the shins. "I had to  _carry_  the little parasite. What are you whining about?" After a beat, though, she nodded. "I'm in."

 

"Count us in," Ron added, nodding. "By the way, our wedding is going to be in early August. Mum wants to have it at the Burrow. She says it's  _tradition_ , on account of the whole _one_  weddings we had there. Harry, you're my best man, right, mate?" Harry nodded, smiling fondly, and Ron grimaced at Ginny. "Uh, Susan has her own friends she wants to make her bridesmaids."

 

Ginny waved her hands dismissively. "I do not want to be a bridesmaid," she declared. "I want to go to your wedding, get plastered, and not have a bunch of chores to do. I'm fine with that."

 

"Hermione, nightclub Saturday?" Harry said, balling up a napkin and throwing it at her. She looked up from her book, peeved, and he grinned. "Maybe we can get you laid. Ginny said you _really_  need it."

 

"I did not!  _Hermione, no, I didn't_ ," Ginny squealed, leaping over the arm of the couch before Hermione could land a slap on her.

 

"Fine, I'll go, but remember that if you set me up, I'm going to bring the bloke  _here_  and have the loudest sex I can just a few rooms away," Hermione threatened. "So consider that before you do anything stupid."

 

"Duly noted." Harry grabbed a notepad and wrote on it, sounding out the words slowly as he scribbled. "Purchase... some... ear plugs." The balled up napkin made a return trip, bouncing off his glasses as he stifled a grin.

  
  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  


On Saturday morning, Hermione got another owl, asking her to reconsider her decision not to attend. Although it was Narcissa's handwriting, she was confused to see that it wasn't her owl, Prissy. It wasn't Lucius' or Draco's, either. She wondered if perhaps they'd gotten a new one. Hermione's note back was a simple,  _I've already plans. Send my regards._  She didn't owe Draco a goddamn thing, certainly not her presence on his birthday. He would have all his friends there, and she was sure he'd have a grand time regaling them about his future wife, the Whore of Babylon. She was in no mood to try and pretend to be pleasant with that lot.

 

Dressing for the nightclub was, at least, a good deal easier than dressing for one of Narcissa's uptight parties. Ginny had to let Hermione borrow her clothes, as Hermione owned frightfully little that was considered "club ready" these days. She'd ended up donating those clothes over a year prior, upon realizing she never wore them anymore.

 

Fortunately, Ginny found it a lot harder to let go, and had plenty of them in her already overstuffed closet.

 

"Here, try this on," Ginny suggested, holding up a cropped top covered in sequins.

 

Hermione grimaced. "No. No bare tummies, no plunging necklines, no barely-there skirts," she repeated for the fiftieth time. "You know what I used to wear when we went out to Muggle London. If you don't provide me with an actual option, I'm going to go in my jeans and a jumper."

 

"I  _forbid_  you from going in a jumper," Ginny huffed, outraged. "Alright, give me a second. You should really consider baring your tummy, Hermione, you still have such a nice one. Mine is all gross from being pregnant all over the place.  _One_  of us should be able to look properly jaw-dropping this evening."

 

"That'll still be you, no matter what you're wearing," Hermione laughed. "Besides, Susan will be here soon. Maybe you can fob your skin-tight skin-baring clothes on her."

 

Susan arrived in a mini-dress, though, which Ginny deemed acceptable. They both searched Ginny's closet to find something Hermione wouldn't outright reject, and finally the three of them settled on a skirt that was _tight_  but at least hit mid-thigh. The top Hermione agreed to was also tight, a shiny dark gray affair, but the most it bared was her shoulders. Then came the make-up.

 

At first, having Susan there for girly get-ready time was kind of weird, because there'd been so many years when Hermione's only real female friend was Ginny. Getting ready together was kind of like a ritual, both of them hashing over the same old arguments and playing the same parts together. Having a third person in the mix meant that the usual arguments didn't quite work, because they were a two-person affair. Susan was fairly non-partial during their disagreements, sometimes landing on Ginny's side of things and sometimes on Hermione's. By the end of the two-hour primping session (most of which was just chatting lazily), though, Hermione was forced to admit to herself that Susan was kind of a nice addition to the mix. No, it wasn't what she was used to, but Susan was surprisingly funny for such a quiet girl, quick to laugh. She was also kind and generous with her compliments, applying them so gently that they didn't ever become overbearing.

 

Beneath that, though, there was a hint of steel. She was a lovely person, but by no means a doormat. As she shared the story of how Ron had suggested that she quit working during her pregnancy - it was one of Molly's personal policies that work harmed the baby in utero - and how she'd firmly declined the generous offer of being solely supported by him, Hermione wondered if perhaps they weren't somewhat suited. More than anyone might have originally thought, even.

 

Being so calm, Susan was likely to provide a balancing affect against Ron's temper. But her fun-loving nature and the ease with which she altered her plans matched Ron's personality almost exactly, too. And her unexpectedly no-nonsense refusal to do what she didn't agree with would serve her well with Ron's pushy personality.

 

Yes, Hermione could see how they'd make each other very happy. She realized that it was likely they'd never divorce at all. What a strange thought.

 

But for the first time since all this began, Hermione realized she wasn't very bitter about it, anymore. Her best friend was lucky to have a girl like this, and Hermione blinked as she felt herself grow  _happy_ for him at the prospect of a long and beautiful marriage to a wonderful girl. Maybe she was finally growing up, after all.

  
  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  


"Oh, my God is a merciful God, a kind God," Harry intoned, as Ginny flounced down the stairs, looking every bit the radiant and sexy party girl that had won the Boy Who Lived's heart. "When I was sick, he healed me. When I was hungry, he fed me. And when I was lonely, he gave me the most beautiful girl in the world."

 

"Aren't you a charmer, today," Ginny teased, although Hermione could see that she was chuffed. After spending half the afternoon complaining about how her two pregnancies had all but ruined her once-glorious body (Hermione didn't see how they had, but there was no fighting a woman's insecurities, she supposed), there wasn't an upper limit to the amount of compliments he could shower on her that she would accept.

 

Ron was staring at Susan. "I barely even  _recognized_  you! Are those Ginny's clothes?"

 

She grinned, shaking her head. "Mine. And there's a  _lot_ of things you don't know about me, Ronald Weasley."

 

"I see that."

 

Hermione waited, and then cleared her throat, jokingly.

 

Ron laughed, pulling her in for a hug. "Like you don't know you're a bombshell, Hermione. There's only so many times I can see you turn into that jaw-dropping heart-breaker from the damn Yule Ball before I start to  _expect_  it."

 

"No pressure, naturally," Hermione said, laughing. "Let's go. I can't wait to dance normally again. As much fun as the schottische was, I think it's time to cleanse those crazy ballroom hops from my system."

 

"Amen," Harry agreed, grabbing his wand.

 

They Apparated just outside the Leaky Cauldron, quickly moving through it to the Muggle side. It felt like old times, walking together in a little gaggle as they headed out for the night. Muggle London really did have a much better night-life. In the wizarding world, the closest thing anyone had to a real night life was a collection of fancy restaurants or a party someone was throwing. They didn't have clubs, and even the pubs weren't really heavily populated after dinner time.

 

Although she did  _not_  miss having to stand in line to get in. Thankfully, Ginny managed to get the bouncer's attention and flirted with him a bit, and they got moved to the front of the line as Harry pretended to be Hermione's boyfriend. The bouncer gave Ginny his number before they went inside.

 

"So that's your secret, is it?" Susan asked, once they were safely inside. Harry had removed his arm from Hermione's waist.

 

"It's  _much_ better, now," Harry said. "Before, Hermione and Ron were together, so I had to pretend to be _gay_."

 

"And a convincing one you were, at that," Ron observed, eyebrows raising slightly. "I always made sure to dance on the farthest side of the girls after  _that_."

 

"Shut it, Ron."

 

"No one would have blamed you if you hadn't been able to resist me. Secretly, I always figured you settled for Ginny because her red hair reminded you of your _true_ love," Ron continued, although he stopped short when Harry socked him in the arm.

 

He raised his own fist to return fire, but Susan grabbed it. "You deserved that," she told him.

 

He let her lower his hand. "Alright, but you only get that  _one_ _,_ mate," he warned Harry, smiling. "Although I'm not sure I wasn't right, because I barely _felt_ that, so I'm just saying maybe- Ow!" Ron cringed away as Harry landed another punch on the same arm.

 

"Felt that one, did you?" Harry asked, eyes twinkling.

 

Ron scowled at him, rubbing at the spot.

 

"I'm going to need a lot of alcohol to deal with you lot, tonight," Hermione sighed, heading for the bar. Ginny was close on her heels, giggling as she threaded her arm through Hermione's. As they entered the nightclub proper, the muffled thump of the music became deafening electronic music. She leaned on the bar top after pushing through the crowd, and the bartender eventually wound his way over to them. "Two screwdrivers, two Jack and cokes, and..." She glanced at Susan, who mouthed her order, knowing she wouldn't be heard over the din. Hermione turned back to the bartender with a smile. "And a dark and stormy."

 

The bartender nodded, turning away to start assembling their drinks. Hermione glanced at the man beside her, whom she was crowding, and smiled. "Sorry. I should be out of your way soon."

 

He smiled at her, and Hermione realized he was  _very_ cute, tan and dark-haired with crisp white teeth. "I'm not complaining." She laughed, flushing a bit as she glanced at the bartender, who had already finished the two screwdrivers and was working on the dark and stormy. The man put his hand out. "I'm Rick."

 

She shook it. "Hermione. Is that accent American?"

 

"That's right," he said. "I'm in town on a little business trip. I've been in meetings all day."

 

Her eyebrows rose a bit. "Doesn't that leave you a bit knackered for partying?"

 

"I've gotta unwind somehow," he said, emphatically. "I work in acquisitions, and I've got to tell you, it's demanding work. Soul-sucking. Leaves your heart dry."

 

"So you're watering your parched heart with a martini?"

 

He laughed. "I guess you could say that. What do you do, Hermione?"

 

"I work for the government," she said. It was true enough, and a practiced lie she used when out in the Muggle world. "It's also fairly soul-sucking, though I imagine for different reasons. The amount of red tape you have to crawl through to get the tiniest thing done is enough to drive a person mad. And everything's in triplicate."

 

He hissed through his teeth in sympathy. "Not triplicate."

 

"You're telling me." The bartender dropped all the drinks off in front of her, and she started passing them back to Ginny to distribute. "Well... I should be getting back to my friends. Hopefully we'll cross paths again, hey?" With a little wave, she followed her group back to a table that Ron had somehow claimed.

 

"He was _cute_. Hermione, you should have stayed and talked to him," Ginny shouted over the music as they sat, sipping their drinks.

 

"I want to relax with my friends," she said, pointedly. "Not spend an entire evening trying to interest a stranger."

 

"We could be friends for fifty years, and I still wouldn't get you," Ginny sighed, but she tucked her arm around Hermione's waist and snuggled up against her as she sipped her screwdriver.

 

After the drinks, they went out onto the pounding dance floor, and Hermione threw herself into the music, eager to forget.

 

Eight cocktails and two hours of dancing later, she was pretty sure she succeeded.

  
  


0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  


Rick joined them on their way out. Hermione tried to act nonchalant, like she didn't know that this was eventually going to lead to a one-night-stand that she may or may not regret, later.

 

"Oh!" Susan cried, glancing at her hands. "I left my clutch." She tried to get back in, but it took Ginny flirting again, and the two women disappeared inside to hunt for it.

 

Harry and Ron started meandering towards a convenience store on the corner, eager to get some cheap food.

 

That left her and Rick alone.

 

Hermione looked up at him, feeling strangely shy. She'd never picked up a stranger, before; whenever she went out with her friends before, she'd been dating Ron. She felt radically unsure of herself as he smiled at her, looking a little awkward, himself. "So... now we're alone," she said, laughing self-deprecatingly. "If we weren't all pissed out of our heads, I might think this was planned."

 

"Again, no complaints," Rick said, reaching for her hand and giving it a little squeeze, his thumb brushing across the back of her knuckles. He watched her blush a bit and said, "You're very pretty."

 

"Are all Americans so forward?" she asked, feeling her face heat. But she noticed she was grinning.

 

"For the most part," he said, laughing. "Although, in fairness, I've known my fair share of British blokes to be forward, too, when it comes to getting the attention of a pretty girl."

 

"Funny you should mention that," came another voice, drawling, but hard as steel. Hermione felt her stomach drop as she turned to look over her shoulder, watching Draco stroll right up to the both of them. He was wearing the same blazer and jeans she'd transfigured for him that day she took him to lunch. His eyes were on Rick, though, and a cold smile turned the corners of his lips. "I hope you'll understand, then, if I tell you to get your hands and eyes off my fiancée."

 

Rick dropped her hand, shooting her a frown.

 

Hermione scowled. "Draco,  _what_  are you doing here? How did you even find me? Oh, and also, before I forget, _piss off_."

 

"Hey, man," Rick said, taking a step back. Draco looked positively murderous. "Look, she wasn't wearing a ring. I'm sorry. Uh... it was nice meeting you, Hermione." With a bit of a wave, he quickly made his exit, leaving Hermione behind to fume.

 

"To answer your question," Draco grit out, in a low tone. "I used a finding charm."

 

"I'm not lost," she growled. She was feeling brave with all that alcohol in her. "But I expect you to  _get_  lost, here in a second." She took a step towards him to jab her finger in his chest, and tripped on the pavement.

 

He caught her, and she slapped at him as she straightened, to get his hands off her. "Merlin, you're pissed," he said, sounding annoyed. "How much did you have to drink?"

 

"Oh, it's a little number between 'business' and 'nunya,'" she said, and started laughing at herself.

 

"What?"

 

"Just  _go away_ , Draco. Why are you even here?" she whined, petulantly. "Shouldn't you be showering yourself in presents like the spoiled piece of work you are?"

 

"I've been going to the Ministry every day to try and speak to you," he said, in a clipped tone. "Where have you been? Prancing about Muggle London replacing your blood with liquor?"

 

"And if I was?" she demanded, shrilly. "So what? I can do what I want. I'm a free person."

 

"And who was that?" he asked, nodding his chin in the direction of Rick.

 

"Oh, just one of my _many_  sexual conquests. I try not to spend more than ten minutes without another person between my legs, you see," she said, coldly. "But then, you already knew that, didn't you?"

 

He looked pained. "Hermione... you know that's just how I have to act with people like Pansy," he whispered. "It's not who I really am."

 

"Wrong," she snapped, and Draco stared at her as her eyes started to tear up. "How you act is  _exactly_  who you really are. There is no difference. You Slytherins just like to pretend there's a difference so you don't have to feel awful about how you treat people." His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at her as she sniffed, rubbing at her eyes. "Now you're going to make me smudge my eyeliner. I hate you, Draco Malfoy."

 

"You!" The inhuman shriek came from Ginny, who had just come out with Susan hot on her trail. "Get the hell away from her, birthday  _ferret_ ," she slurred, grabbing Hermione by the shoulders and herding her down the street. "And  _stay_  away from her, or next time I'll get my wand out, and I don't  _care_  if anyone sees me turn you into a sopping pile of sobbing _guacamole_."

 

They hurried down the street towards the convenience store, leaving Draco staring after them.

 


	17. Nuclear Fall-Out

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventeen: Nuclear Fall-Out**

 

…

 

Hermione's brilliant mood had been _ruined_ by two stupid minutes with Malfoy. She was willing to admit that perhaps he had a little too much control over her emotional state. She was going to have to purge him from her system, somehow.

 

Ginny didn't leave her side for the whole walk home, muttering things like _stupid bloody ferret_ and _how dare he_ and a few curse-words Hermione hadn't ever even _heard_ before.

 

Ron, of course, had run back to the nightclub's entrance to try and beat Draco's head in, but unfortunately Draco had been gone by then. Or perhaps it was fortunate. Hermione didn't particularly want to see her friend get arrested by the Muggle police because he'd beaten a person into a sack of jelly. Although she would freely admit (to herself, in the privacy of her own mind) that a part of her wished that Ron had found the bastard and at least uglied up his face a little.

 

Sadly, no such luck.

 

They brought her home, and played a game called _Let's Remember All The Stupid Shit Malfoy Ever Did At School_ while they continued drinking their cares away. She had to admit that by the end of it, she did feel a _little_ better.

 

Until she started puking her liquor up, that is.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I've seen Hell,” Hermione said, as she trudged into the kitchen the next morning clutching at her head. “And it's a vomit-flecked porcelain bowl.” She eased into the chair opposite Harry, who was gingerly sipping at a cup of tea. “Don't you have any hangover potion, or something?”

 

“For what? I can't even remember the last time I was hungover,” Harry sighed, rubbing at his temples. “At least you _got_ to throw up in the toilet. Ginny had to give Ron our stew pot.”

 

Hermione gagged a bit. “Did Susan make it home alright?”

 

“Yeah, I Flooed with her to make sure.”

 

A groan came from the couch in the living room. “Shut _up_ ,” Ron pleaded. “I'm dying and your words are like anvils on my head.” He turned into the back of the couch, pulling the little throw blanket over his head, leaving his feet exposed as they hung off the arm. He was far too tall for that couch.

 

Hermione stood to make herself some tea. She considered eating, but her stomach lurched unpleasantly at the thought. Tea with lemon, it is.

 

Harry cast a _Muffliato_. “Ginny and Ron won't be joining the land of the living for several hours. Since breakfast is completely out of the question, want to go downstairs and play Super Mario World?”

She snorted. “You still have that thing?”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They fought for several minutes on who had to be Luigi before Harry declared the _It's Mine So I Get To Be Player One_ code of conduct. Hermione had tried to counter with the _But I'm A Guest_ policy, but had been swiftly shot down as he grabbed the controller and told her to be Luigi or go back upstairs.

 

Two hours later, they were bitterly arguing over who had bollocksed up that castle level, neither of them taking their eyes from the screen as they jabbed buttons on their controllers.

 

Hermione, much like Harry, had never had a game system growing up. Unlike Harry, this was because her parents actually cared too much, and thus didn't want her filling her time with 'silly nonsense.' When the war was over, Harry had used his inherited wealth to fill the basement of Grimmauld Place with every console he could find. The Super Nintendo was still his favorite, and he and Hermione had spent about a year being utterly obsessed with the system.

 

Ron had tried to get into it along with them, but despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, he was actually horrid at video games. His biggest flaw was that he could never remember which button did what, and after several hours of him screaming 'How do I jump?!,' Harry and Hermione began to exclude him from their playtime.

 

Ginny had _never_ been interested, and she had made that clear from the get-go.

 

The end result of all this was that Hermione and Harry had spent nearly all their free time for almost a _year_ confined to the basement. If Ginny and Ron had been suspicious sorts, they might have begun to wonder about the two of them. Actually, Hermione was pretty sure Ron _was_ a suspicious sort, but if he'd had any misgivings about the amount of time Harry spent with his girlfriend, he either opted not to say or (more likely) had Ginny available to tell him to stop being a paranoid idiot.

 

Hermione was glad Harry had Ginny, really. Who else wouldn't bat an eye at the odd closeness some woman had with her husband? Anyone else in the world would have surely seen Hermione as a rival.

 

But Ginny was the right mixture of self-confidence and trusting, and it had never once been an issue.

 

The basement door opened, and Ginny called down, “Harry? I'm going to pick up the boys.” Her voice sounded positively ragged. “Are you playing that idiotic plumber game?”

 

“No,” Harry and Hermione called, simultaneously. They shared a quick grin over the lie.

 

“Like I don't recognize that stupid music,” Ginny grumbled, and the basement door closed. They heard her steps go through the living room, and then there was a whining yelp – presumably as she jerked Ron awake and told him to get sorted before his nephews arrived – before they moved to the Floo and disappeared.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

An hour later, they'd quit the game and headed upstairs to pretend they weren't all wretchedly hungover for the kids. After playing for a bit, Hermione had sighed, realizing that it was time to go back to her flat, to her job, and real life in general.

 

She hugged Ginny for a long time on the way out, and whispered, “I love you so much.”

 

“Aw,” Ginny said, laughing quietly. “You know, you don't have to leave. You're not imposing at _all_. We love having you around.”

 

“I know,” Hermione assured her, pulling back. “But I do sort of miss my flat. And having the occasional quiet evening,” she added, giving Ginny's rambunctious sons a narrow look. They didn't notice at all.

 

Ginny smiled, her cheeks dimpling, and then she sobered a bit. “Please don't spend all your time at that bloody office,” she said, lowering her voice so James wouldn't hear the swear word.

 

“I won't. I learned my lesson,” she promised.

 

“Good. Don't make me send Harry after you, again.”

 

“I _knew_ you were behind that,” Hermione complained, glaring at Ginny. Her friend just offered a cheery smile in return, and helped usher Hermione through the Floo – more of an ordeal than usual, with Crookshanks involved.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Honestly, returning to work the next morning was a relief. She thanked her boss for the time away, a show of gratitude he waved away, and then set back to picking up her various projects where she'd left them. The one nice thing about this kind of job, she supposed, was that projects were never really _late_. They got delayed, but the only person that really upset was Hermione herself.

 

She made it through the morning cheerfully enough. The office work that she usually found to be a bit boring was holding her attention wonderfully. All in all, things were shaping up to be quite excellent.

 

Which was why, she supposed, Lucius had made it his business to appear at her cubicle like the world's worst genie. “Good morning, Hermione,” he said.

 

Hermione, her back still turned to him, made a face, squeezing her eyes shut. Maybe he'd disappear if she _wished_ for it hard enough. But when she turned in her chair to face him, he was still there, watching her impassively. “Hello, Lucius. How are you?” she asked, politely.

 

“Well. Narcissa has been attempting to reach out to you in regards to the wedding,” he said. “But it appears as though a well-placed Confundus Charm has kept them away from you.”

 

Startled, Hermione tried to think of whom that might have been. Probably Harry; Ginny's realm of expertise lied more with aggressive hexes than charms. She wondered when he was going to tell her he'd charmed the house to keep the Malfoy owls out. Probably never. “Oh. Sorry about that,” she said, with a faint sigh. “I told her that she can plan it however she likes. I don't really have much opinion on any of it.”

 

“Truly?” Lucius murmured. “I was given to understand that most girls spent several years of their life imagining the perfect ceremony.”

 

She had, but she was too tired and wary of the Malfoy family to want to spend any time with _any_ of them, at this point. “Well, people do seem fond of telling me how different from 'most girls' I am, so I suppose that explains it,” she muttered, evasively trying to avoid outright lying. Lucius always seemed to catch her when she did it.

 

“You're an abominable actress, Hermione. You should play to your strengths more often. Deception doesn't seem to be one of them.”

 

Her eyes flicked up to his, her lips thinning a bit. “I don't want to help plan the wedding,” she said, flatly. “Narcissa seems to like planning that sort of thing, and I'm okay with whatever she wants. I'd rather just show up, do the ceremony, and finish it.”

 

Lucius considered her for several moments, in silence. Then he said, “I have taken the liberty of asking your Department Head if I could enjoy your company for the lunch-hour. As he believes that my intent is to discuss the matter of donations--”

 

“I wonder how he got that idea,” Hermione muttered, sourly.

  
He ignored her. “He was more than happy to allow me access to you. It is nearing noon, and I have made us reservations at a lovely restaurant featuring traditional Spanish cuisine. I presumed you might enjoy a reminder of your time spent in Barcelona.”

 

Were all Malfoy men this pushy and obnoxious? How about a 'Are you free for lunch, Hermione? Would you like to go with me to a nice restaurant, Hermione?'

 

She folded her arms. “I'll regret it if I don't go, won't I?”

 

“I can't predict the future, Hermione.” But his blink was slow, and smug, like a dragon facing down a knight in straw armor.

 

Rolling her eyes, she tidied her desk and stood to follow him out.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He Side-Along Apparated her, which she didn't think twice about until she recalled that she wasn't wearing a magic ring protecting her from his ill intent, anymore. Hermione had almost forgotten that the trust she had in him was almost _entirely_ predicated on the enchanted ring. She really wished she hadn't been so stupid as to take it off in the heat of the moment.

 

She needn't have worried too much. He brought her to a restaurant, as promised, and within moments they were seated at a table with the finest white linen she'd ever seen. It was softer than her bedsheets.

 

“Are you partial to any sort of Spanish wine?” he asked.

 

“You pick,” she said, shortly.

 

“Would an albarino entice you?”

 

“Lucius,” she said, her voice flat with warning. “You told me to play to my strengths, and I'm going to do that by telling you that when I'm annoyed, patience is not my strong suit. I don't want to engage in niceties.”

 

“But I do,” he said, blinking. “Would it be harmful to you to allow an old man his quirks?”

 

“Don't think I buy for one second that you've any sort of frailty that can be used to win over my sympathies,” she said, sharply. Perhaps a little too sharply, to mask the fact that while she knew what he was doing, it was still sort of working: she'd felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. “You're trying to get me to put my guard down, and it won't work.”

 

He was staring at the wine list as she spoke. When he finally responded, it was in an absent tone. “I think I do fancy an albarino.”

 

Insufferable. Every last one of them. She was going to tear out all of her hair in frustration, being married into this sodding family. Scowling, Hermione just sat back. She wasn't going to give in, but neither was she going to keep tipping her hand by speaking. Lucius was the sort of person that used silence as a weapon, counting on others to fill in the noiseless voids.

 

But, at least for now, he'd met his match in Hermione. She pursed her lips shut and didn't utter a word as he ordered his wine, tested and accepted it, and sipped at it delicately. When he'd ordered for her, she'd even let him, she was so very devoted to her refusal to speak.

 

The menus got taken away, and then they were just staring at each other, waging a war of silence.

 

He finally issued a nasal sigh. “Hermione--”

 

“Ha! I win,” she said, smugly, folding her arms as she settled back into her chair.

 

His eyes closed, and she saw the corners of his lips tense as they started to pull upwards. He was trying not to _smile_. He couldn't help but do so as he opened his eyes to look at her, speaking again. “The battle, my dear, but not the war.”

 

“Actually, I did win the war,” she pointed out, eyes going half-lidded. “Seven years ago.”

 

“So you did,” he conceded. Then he continued, still dreadfully amused by the sound of his tone. “I brought you here because I have decided to do something I very rarely do, which is speak candidly.”

 

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I'm sure you'll find some way to twist that around to your benefit.”

 

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But you've proven yourself a clever girl. Don't you think you can beat me at my own game?”

 

“No,” she said, bluntly.

 

He actually did smile, then. It was small, but there. “A very clever girl, indeed,” he murmured. “You must have presumed that I am here on Draco's behalf.”

 

“I doubt you're here as his agent,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I don't think he knows you're talking to me at all, actually. But yes, I assumed that you would only be doggedly pursuing lunch with me to get me to bury the hatchet with him.”

 

“He does know that I am here, actually.” Hermione blinked in surprise. “He believes that I will be able to appeal to you on a level you're more comfortable with.”

 

“Which level is that?” she asked, suspiciously.

 

“A mental one, devoid of emotion.”

 

“I'm comfortable with my emotions!”

 

Lucius raised his eyebrows at her. “It is evident to me that you take refuge in facts and logic when you are feeling emotionally overwhelmed.”

 

She grit her teeth. “I'm not overwhelmed, I'm angry,” she said, slowly. “So what does that mean? Draco doesn't think he can be an unfeeling robot, like me?”

 

He frowned. “What's a robot?”

 

She made a frustrated noise, speaking quickly to get the explanation out of the way so they could continue the conversation: “It's like a golem, but it's made with metal and is powered by a computer.”

 

“A computer?”

 

“Oh, my God,” she muttered. “Forget it.”

 

“Very well,” he said, still frowning slightly. “And the answer to your question is no. Draco has always been emotionally volatile, and has some difficulty suppressing them when dealing with frustrating or stressful situations.”

 

“And you don't.”

 

“No.”

 

She inhaled shakily, and gestured at him to continue. “So what are you meant to be appealing to me with? I'm ready to hear whatever it is.”

 

“I think you should speak with Draco.”

 

Hermione issued an incredulous laugh, shaking her head.

 

“He would like to apologize properly for his poor conduct at the party. He was thoroughly castigated by his mother and I for displaying the same bad breeding Miss Parkinson resorts to,” he continued, earning a suspicious look from the girl across the table. “Yes, even a former Death Eater considers it to be ill-bred to publicly chastise a fellow attendee at a party, especially so when they're bringing up personal matters.”

 

She stared at him, frowning, not sure if she should believe what he was saying. Pansy was a pureblood. She thought that was all that mattered when it came to whether or not someone was of 'bad breeding.'

 

His voice lowered a bit. “You mistook me in that moment following your altercation with my son. I was not upset with you for not being a virgin. I did not expect you to be, and I do not believe you to be less worthy of a person based on such a ridiculous technicality.”

 

“But having Muggle parents does make me less of a person?” she challenged, lifting her chin slightly.

 

Lucius' eyes bored into her for a few long, tense moments. “I do not know.”

 

“What?” Hermione asked, startled.

 

“I know what I was raised to believe, and I will not lie to you and say that I do not still believe that Muggle-borns are inferior,” he said, flatly. “As a general rule. But there are always exceptions to every rule, and I have reason to believe you are one.”

 

She was silent.

 

“Does that please you?” he asked, softly.

 

Hermione thought it over. “No,” she finally said, shaking her head. “No, it really doesn't. It's like getting a reward for being the least ape-like of all the un-evolved persons. It's a hollow trophy, and I don't want it. I don't want your grudging respect because you think I might not be as bad as the rest of the people in my sect of the population. That I've managed to rise above the abominably low opinion you've always had of me means _nothing_. I am a fantastic witch,” she said, beginning to grow angry again. “Not 'fantastic for a Mudblood,' not 'fantastic given her heritage.' I am an _excellent_ witch, and I make most of you pureblooded snots look positively _mundane_ as a result. And you can't stand it, can you? That's why you're always trying to keep me down.”

 

“I just complimented your abilities. I was not 'keeping you down,'” Lucius disagreed.

 

“No, you were complimenting my abilities _with the provision_ that they were excellent _considering what I am_. When you tack conditions onto a compliment, it stops being a compliment. It's just more close-minded ignorance wrapped up in a nicer tone. I don't accept it,” she said, sharply. “And I don't need it.”

 

He was silent for a long time. The food arrived while they remained at that impasse, and Hermione picked up her fork and began to eat. After a moment, he followed suit.

 

“What I intended to convey earlier,” he said, finally. “Was that I was not upset with you, and I thought that perhaps you might think that because I was rather upset with Draco at the time.”

 

“Why?” she asked, dully, although she already knew the answer.

 

“For the reasons I explained earlier.”

 

“That he showed 'ill-breeding'?” she asked, with a hint of mockery. “Not that he was being a complete arsehole, or that he's a mean-spirited little swine with no sense of decency? Just that he was improper enough to show it?”

 

“Manners are of the utmost importance to me,” Lucius assured her.

 

“I suppose something should be, since everything else that used to be important to you died with Voldemort,” she said, acidly.

 

She was gratified to see that he momentarily froze upon hearing the name. “You are careless with your words when you are upset,” he observed, stopping to pick up his wine and take a sip from it. “Had you been sorted into Slytherin, you would have learned to curb those tendencies.”

 

“Well, I wasn't. Too bad.”

 

“Are you typically so hostile to someone trying to help you?”

 

She stared at him. “How, exactly,” she began, slowly. “Are you trying to help _me_? As far as I can tell, you're just trying to help Draco. And I don't know why, either. He has the rings, you know, so he's not beholden to me. You could just try and kill me off and finish this. Why not? You've certainly done worse, in your time.”

 

“Do you feel more sure of yourself when you are repeating a list of my crimes to me?” he asked, his voice soft, and a little dangerous. “Does it provide you with strength?”

 

Hermione clenched her teeth together. “Did you feel bad for any of it? Ever?”

 

He blinked at her, slowly, and took another bite of his meal as he thought. “No,” he finally said. “I believed in what I was doing at the time. I felt no guilt.”

 

“What about now?”

 

“I have no urge to kill others to further my beliefs at this time.”

 

“No, I mean do you feel _bad_ now? Does any part of your soul regret it, even just a little? Maybe when you're trying to fall asleep at night?” she asked, a little desperately. “Or do you sleep very well, like you've never been wicked a day in your life?”

 

“I did what I thought was right, Hermione.”

 

“When is torturing innocent people ever _right_?” she demanded, her voice raising a bit. His eyes flickered around the restaurant, and she seethed. Of course he was more concerned with making a scene. “You tortured Muggles, Lucius. You tortured them with your magic, the one weapon they didn't have. That isn't only evil, it's cowardly and pathetic.”

 

“You insist that Muggles are equal, and now you are saying they are disadvantaged?”

 

“Those ones were. The ones that had no idea what you were. I highly doubt you provided them with the opportunity to deflect your torturing with Muggle weapons,” she bit out. “Did you happen to do that?”

 

He shifted in his chair, his expression growing haughty. He always hid behind his arrogance when uncomfortable, she noticed. “No, I did not.”

 

“Good thing for you, because Muggles have guns.” The way she said the word, like it was bitter on her tongue, caught his attention. “Do you know what a gun is?” She continued, knowing he didn't. “It's a piece of metal that fits in your hand, kind of like a wand. And it shoots these things called bullets, little pieces of metal, like little balls. And they fly at you faster than you can see and embed themselves in your body, rupturing everything in their path. And on a larger scale? Oh, let me tell you about _bombs_ , Lucius, a thing that a lot of powerful Muggle countries have in their possession: These are explosive hunks of metal that, when detonated, obliterate _everything_ within _kilometers_.”

 

She leaned in, enjoying the way his face had paled slightly. “And even if the explosion doesn't snuff you out, if you just happen to be outside of the blast radius? Then you just have to deal with the bomb's fall-out. There's a thing called radiation poisoning, and the residue from these awful weapons kills people from the inside out, even if they were kilometers and kilometers away. A single bomb could wipe out all of London, and kill everyone outside of it through the slow torture of having their body waste away to nothing.

 

“So, to answer your question,” she said, primly, shooting him a haughty look of her own. “No, I _don't_ think Muggles are disadvantaged. But I do think you're a lying sneak who captured an innocent person unawares and tortured them for pleasure, and to be quite honest with you, I think I'd rather deal with a nuclear fall-out than someone as unequivocally evil as you.”

 

Lucius stared at her for a long time. “You are a singularly passionate person,” he said, quietly. “I can see why my son is wary of your censure.”

 

She frowned. “What?”

 

“You are adept at putting people very firmly in their place. It seems I was wrong to assume that you lacked sufficient confidence,” he said. He spoke calmly, almost thoughtfully, as if to himself. “You speak very confidently, although it is a shame that you must suffer through such emotional upheaval to do so.”

 

Hermione stared at him, bewildered.

 

He continued eating. “I sense it will please you if I admit this, and I would like to remind you that I rarely admit to what I consider to be personal failings, but I am driven by thoughts of my son's welfare and thus I do not think I have much choice. I took no pleasure in torturing those Muggles, nor did I enjoy the prospect of killing children outside of Hogwarts in an attempt to stop a single boy that had been targeted by someone I'd come to believe might be a madman. I do feel regret, Hermione, although I imagine you will not look too kindly on me for failing to act upon it until I feared that my son was dead.”

 

She sat in stunned silence, even as he paused to consider her. “And I did not hate you, whatever you mistakenly believe. I pitied you. I pitied the fact that by some warp of nature, you had come upon abilities that you could not possibly begin to utilize appropriately, that you would have to enter a world that was not yours just to learn to tame those abilities. Muggles were not meant to live among us.”

 

“So the answer was my death?” she whispered.

 

“Your life was one of suffering. Euthanasia was the only appropriate response to my assessment of the situation at the time.”

 

She stared at him in horror. “That's utterly mad.”

 

“I have found that excess passion can sometimes manifest itself thusly. As it happens, I do not believe your life is one of suffering anymore,” he admitted. He sounded a little choked as he forced the words out, as though it burned his throat to speak with anything resembling sincerity. “Nor do I believe that you were never meant to wield a wand. You do so excellently, and I am painfully forced to conclude that you do so by nature's intent.”

 

Speechless, Hermione poked at her food, not sure of what to say. “I can't find the backhanded part,” she murmured.

 

“There was none.”

 

Just like that. Hermione found it a little hard to breathe, for a moment. “You're not lying, are you?” she asked, suddenly, looking up at him as a frown tugged on her lips. “Do you really think that about me?”

 

He inclined his head, his expression serious.

 

“And you think I'm worthy of your son. If you could back out of the law right now, would you call everything off and go find a pureblood for him?” she asked, squinting at him.

 

“I might, but not because of your lack of impressive abilities.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“Because you have both displayed a remarkable willingness to harm each other, and he is still my son. I would prefer to see him unharmed, if possible, at least for the rest of his foreseeable future. He has endured enough harm at my behest.”

 

She sighed. “Are you playing on my sympathies, again?”

 

“Yes,” he admitted, bluntly.

 

“That's rude.”

 

“But effective.”

 

She wrinkled her nose at him, but found she couldn't really argue that point. It was underhanded in every possible way, but Lucius Malfoy knew how to get what he wanted. Damn him.

 


	18. Reconciliation

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Eighteen: Reconciliation**

 

…

 

Lucius had insisted on dessert, saying that the restaurant made a chocolate torte that should be sampled at every available opportunity. He ordered two, because of course he was not a person that ever _shared_ anything. Why would a Malfoy share anything when he could afford two of everything?

 

When the torte arrived, Lucius straightened in his chair, watching the plate covetously for a moment as it was placed in front of him.

 

Hermione bit back a smile, but soon she broke and was chuckling.

 

“What has amused you, now?” Lucius wondered, lifting a single eyebrow as his eyes narrowed slightly. Hermione, for whatever reason, frequently found him amusing, and apparently he wasn't sure if he should be insulted by this or not.

 

“Just... seeing you act excited over a torte. I see where Draco got his sweet tooth,” she said, laughing softly.

 

He blinked. “Does he over-indulge in sweets around you?”

 

She thought, and shook her head. “He is drawn to them, but he's gotten a lot better. But in school, either you or Narcissa _showered_ him in chocolate and candy almost constantly through your owls. I think he ate more candy than he ever did real food. My parents would have had a heart attack if they'd seen it.”

 

“Yes, they are teeth healers, correct?”

 

She stifled a snort at the bad approximation of the word 'dentist.' But she brushed over it, nodding. “That's right. And sugar causes your teeth to rot. Muggles spend a lot of money trying to keep their teeth healthy.”

 

“Why?”

 

Hermione sighed, thinking. She finally bit into the torte. It _was_ delicious. After she swallowed, she answered. “Well, I suppose because tooth pain can be very uncomfortable, and when your teeth go bad, it can be painful. But I suspect that a lot of work is done actually to keep teeth looking straight and clean. Having badly managed or dirty teeth can be seen as extremely unattractive to Muggles. Oh, and they have to be straight. A lot of Muggles spend thousands of pounds having metal wires cemented to their teeth in order to straighten them out if they become uneven.”

 

She laughed a bit at the expression on Lucius' face. “And that's purely for vanity, I'm afraid. Having straight teeth is considered to be a fairly important facet of being attractive.”

 

His lips were closed, but Hermione saw them bulge a bit as he ran his tongue over his own teeth, trying to discern how straight they were. She pressed her lips together to keep from bursting into laughter; she'd always suspected Lucius Malfoy was vain, but the fact that she'd just made him assess his own attractiveness by a Muggle measuring stick was absolutely _priceless_. She'd have to tell Ginny about this.

 

“Your teeth are straight enough,” she assured him, her voice strangled with pent-up mirth. “You can stop checking.”

 

He shot her an irate look, which was possibly the most _human_ expression she'd ever seen on his face. Lucius Malfoy always looked calm and unruffled, no matter what was happening. Seeing such a petty look on those regal features was like an early Christmas gift. “I was not checking.”

 

“You were checking.” She began to laugh, quietly.

 

He was staring at her mouth as she did so, and he observed, “Your teeth are very straight.”

 

“Yes, well, my parents are dentists. Of course my teeth are straight,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “They made sure of it. It's a lot easier done when it's free. Dental work can be prohibitively expensive at times, so sometimes if you're not well-off enough, you have no choice but to accept that your teeth won't ever be in order.”

 

“I did not know you were wealthy.”

 

“Oh, I'm not,” Hermione said, hurriedly. No need to give him that impression. “Dentists make very good money, don't get me wrong. I grew up somewhere in the upper-middle class, if that makes sense. It means you're well-off, but you're not bleeding pounds out the ears.”

 

“Pounds,” Lucius repeated.

 

“Sorry, that's the standard Muggle currency for Britain. Oh, I have some, did you want to see?” She reached down into the pocket of her robes, and pulled out her wallet. A few notes were still in there – a ten-pound and two five-pounds. She held them out to him.

 

He took them, looking so unimpressed that he rather reminded her of the cats he said he detested. “These are paper,” he said, looking up at her.

 

“Oh. Yes,” she said, laughing. “Yes, Muggle currency went the paper route a long time ago. Carrying around gold isn't very efficient, you see. Essentially what happened is the banks held all the gold, and the first notes made guaranteed that you had at least that much gold to your name. Eventually, having the gold in the banks stopped being a part of the typical Muggle lifestyle, and we just use notes and some coins without the gold.”

 

He was frowning. “If there's no gold in your bank account, then is the note not worthless?”

 

Hermione smiled, shrugging. “That's sort of the trick of it. If everyone believes these notes matter, you don't need the physical gold to prove their worth. Of course, it's not like it's as simple as saying that all of the economy is based on these worthless slips of paper. There _is_ gold in the banks, but most of it is possessed by the government, who issues these notes to the people to use.”

 

Well, it wasn't a thorough explanation by any stretch, but she didn't think he could handle a more complicated treatise on Britain's Muggle economy when normal Muggles had to go to school for years just to get a basic idea of it.

 

He handed the notes back to her. “It is far lighter than coinage,” he conceded.

 

She took them, placing them on the table for the moment. “Yes, that's the point. And our coins are typically of a very low value, to the point that if you're of a certain economic class, you don't even really see the point of carrying coins around. I mean, you can't really buy anything with five pence.” She fished out a small, silver coin, and held it out.

 

He took it. “What is the value of this?”

 

“Well, it would take one hundred of those to make one of these,” she said, holding up the five-pound note. “And one of these can _just_ buy a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk with a few coins leftover.”

 

His expression morphed into something resembling disgust as he put the coin firmly back in her hand. He'd probably never held anything of such little worth, before, and she giggled a bit as she put all the notes back in her wallet, leaving the coin on the table.

 

“What is the point of having such a coin, if it does not possess the necessary buying power to fuel even a single transaction?”

 

“Actually, a lot of Muggles don't think we need them, anymore. The problem is, years ago, these used to be worth a lot more. There was a time when five pence could easily buy bread and milk. Unfortunately, as the economy changed over the years and they grew lower and lower in value, there's some resistance to actually removing them from circulation. After all, some people are very poor, and they might only have fifty of these to their name,” she murmured, tapping the five-pence coin. “But fifty more and they can eat. In the Muggle world, there are people who are in danger of starving every day. Even the lowly five-pence coin can make a difference between eating and not, to those people.”

 

“Why are there Muggles who cannot afford food?” he asked, frowning. “Can they not procure employment?”

 

“Not always,” she said, softly. She was staring at the little coin. “In the Muggle side of the world, we're actually over-populated. That's probably why you've seen Muggle-born witches and wizards on the rise over the past few decades. It's sheer numbers. There's more of us than there's ever been, before. It stands to reason that we'd be producing a few more magicals.”

 

She took another bite of the torte. “Anyway, with the over-population, finding a job is not always guaranteed, because there might be more people than jobs in any particular area.”

 

“If Muggles are over-populated, is it possible for them all to be fed?”

 

She nodded. “I believe so. Perhaps not at current, because most first-world countries tend to have less-than-perfect farming industries. But those countries have all the wealth. _Ten percent_ of the planet has _ninety percent_ of the wealth. And they waste far more food than they eat, and they can eat a frightful amount already.”

 

He looked at her plate, where the torte was only half-eaten.

 

Smiling wryly, Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I'm stuffed. If you want the rest of this, be my guest. And, like I said, it's a hard problem to rectify. It would probably take years upon years to see the kind of change necessary to ensure every human had enough food or water to survive.”

 

“Do you not occasionally think that it would be best to allow those impoverished and disadvantaged to die from starvation or thirst?” he wondered. “If the population receded, feeding everyone might be a more attainable goal.”

 

“No!” she said, making a face. “Good God, Lucius, they're still _people_. Who am I to say that someone else ought to die for the greater good? What makes me so special?”

 

He watched her for a moment. “It must be difficult to want things for the world that are impossible.”

 

She inhaled, slowly. “Well, one step at a time. I can't fix all the world's problems, but I aim to fix _some_ of them before I leave this plane.”

 

He reached across the table and took her plate of half-eaten torte. She watched him with wry amusement as he finished it, after which he said, “You almost certainly will.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After dinner, he Apparated them back to the Ministry and insisted on escorting her to her cubicle. Then he disappeared into her boss' office, and fifteen minutes later she was being congratulated on netting a donation of nearly five hundred thousand Galleons to be used in support of a project of her choosing. If she were being honest with herself, she wasn't sure how she felt about the money. When it came to Lucius, almost everything was a trade and nearly nothing was an actual gift.

 

She'd already decided to see Draco, so if he _had_ made the donation in order to prod her to do so, well, he'd wasted his money. But Hermione wasn't sure she should tell him that. Five hundred thousand Galleons was nothing to the Malfoys and may be everything to her dearest pet project: procuring and then protecting the rights of werewolves.

 

On the other hand, keeping money given for favors was exactly the sort of underhanded rottenness that had ruined the Ministry to begin with. She could try and convince herself that her project was more worthy, but she knew she wouldn't succeed.

 

She sent him an owl:

 

_Lucius,_

 

_Your donation was very generous. What is the hidden cost of this gift? I've already decided to meet with Draco._

_  
Hermione_

 

He sent a reply within the hour.

 

_Hermione,_

 

_I will content myself with knowing that it will pain you to utilize this money to further your own interests and will likely keep you awake at night wondering if you'd done the right thing._

 

_If I succeed in causing you to suffer a moral conundrum, consider your debt to me appeased._

 

_Lucius_

 

Her reply was immediate.

 

_You are a rat._

 

_-H_

 

So was his:

 

_Snake._

 

She laughed as she saw the single word on the parchment. So the true price of that money was knowing that she'd agonize over spending it. He really did know her shockingly well, she reflected. Perhaps being on the other side of the war had inspired him to become an expert on the famed 'Golden Trio.' If that were the case, she wasn't sure why they hadn't been captured more often. Lucius was certainly smart enough to pull it off.

 

Hermione sighed as she stared at her desk. The work day was almost over, and while owling Lucius was an amusing diversion, she knew she was only stalling.

 

She penned Draco a letter before leaving for the day.

 

_Draco,_

 

_While I do not agree with your willingness to rely on sending your father to terrorize me into doing what you want, I can't say it doesn't produce results. He said you want to meet. When and where?_

 

_Hermione_

 

After sending it, she glanced at the clock and realized she only had five minutes left to her day. She organized her notes and parchments, and at five o'clock on the dot, she turned to leave her cubicle, and almost ran right into him. “Jesus-- _Christ_ ,” Hermione yelped and then hissed, taking a sharp step back. “Has anyone ever told you that you need more hobbies? I swear, it seems like all you do is sit around in your house until it's time for you to come bother me.”

 

Draco blinked rapidly down at her, although something in her voice seemed to have made him calm down slightly; he'd been very tense when she'd first noticed him. “I don't like waiting.”

 

“Yes, I _know_ that,” she grumbled, grabbing her robe. Then she muttered, “Spoiled.”

 

“Will you join me for dinner?” he asked, sounding... well, _hopeful_.

 

She felt that twinge, and pressed her teeth together, grinding them. She wasn't going to _feel sorry_ for him. No. She had to stay strong. “Fine, but nowhere fancy, I can't take much more rich food in today or I'm liable to be sick.”

 

He nodded, looking relieved that she'd agreed, even if she was being testy about it.

 

Hermione decided to pick, since she wasn't sure that Malfoy knew of many restaurants that weren't at _least_ on a four-star level. Or whatever the wizarding equivalent of that would be. Four phoenix tears? “I know a place in Muggle London,” she said, casting him a sidelong glance, wondering how vehemently he'd protest.

 

He just nodded again.

 

Frowning, she said, “What's wrong with you, Malfoy? You've been in my company for almost two minutes and you haven't made me want to hex you, yet.”

 

“Perhaps I don't want to be hexed. You seem like it wouldn't take much to push you to that point.”

 

Hermione headed out of her cubicle, shooting him her best basilisk stare. “Quite right.”

 

He was quiet as he followed her. He continued to wear an arrogant expression on his face – he was, after all, in public – but she noticed the odd hunch to his shoulders and the way he'd put his hands in his pockets. He was anxious.

 

Truth be told, so was she.

 

Hesitant to break the silence, she let it continue as she led him out of the Ministry and to the Leaky Cauldron. She turned her wand on him, and he nodded, allowing her to transfigure his clothes before they stepped out into Muggle London. She didn't actually have a destination in mind, either, and so when she saw a Japenese restaurant less than a block away, she just led him towards it. She could vaguely remember eating here once before. “Do you like sushi?”

 

He looked around at the sea of Muggles, hunching his shoulders a little harder. “I don't know what that is.”

 

She nodded her head at the door and led him in. If he didn't like it, he could always get teriyaki chicken, instead. “It's... well, I'll let you try it first,” she murmured. She was pretty sure she'd get a volatile reaction if she explained that it contained raw fish. “Then I'll tell you about it.”

 

Draco instantly looked alarmed. “Why won't you tell me first?” he demanded, balking right in the middle of the open door and refusing to come in all the way.

 

“Will you just--” she hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him in.

 

He glared daggers at the hostess as she timidly asked how many their party would be, and then glared more daggers around the restaurant in general as they were brought to their table.

 

“Behave, or I'm leaving,” Hermione warned.

 

Draco scowled, but sat down and stared at the menu. The words were written out with English letters, but the names were very much in Japanese. “I can't read this,” he said, bitterly, setting the menu down.

 

“I'll order. Do you like seafood?” she asked, carefully. At his nod, she added, “What kind?”

 

“All kinds, I suppose.”

 

Good. Nodding, she scanned the menu. When the waiter arrived, she listed off about ten things that he wrote down, while Draco stared at her. Catching his gaze, she defended, “Listen, they're not large amounts of food.”

 

He didn't look convinced, but after a tense moment, he shrugged, still frowning.

 

Hermione settled her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together. She knew she should say something, but she wasn't sure how to start. “I don't really know what to say,” she finally admitted. “I suppose I yelled at you, outside of that club. I kind of remember doing that.”

 

“You did,” he said, lips thinning a bit as he recalled.

 

She swallowed. “Sorry if what I said was ill-tempered. I was upset.”

 

“Who was that man?” he asked, and he asked it in such a way that Hermione could instantly tell that this question had been gnawing at him ever since their confrontation that night.

 

She stared at him. “Who? Rick? Nobody. I met him at the bar of the club.”

 

“Were you going to take him to your flat?”

 

Hermione laughed. “No, he was a Muggle. I couldn't take him there. I might have gone to his hotel. I don't know if I would have. I've never had a one-night stand before.”

 

Draco was gazing at her with an intensity that made her feel vaguely unsettled. “What's a one-night stand?”

 

“Um,” she said, feeling her face grow hot. “It's where you sleep with someone you just met, just the one time, without pursuing a relationship of any sort.”

 

“Why would you want to do that?”

 

“Mutual attraction?” she said, shrugging a bit. “Because you want to? Those are the main reasons.”

 

“But you've never done that.”

 

Starting to grow irritated, Hermione shot him an annoyed look. “No. I dated Ron for four years before becoming your fiancee. One-night stands are something you do when you're single.”

 

Growing agitated, Draco growled, “You weren't single.”

 

“Oh, piss off, Draco,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This is a marriage in name only, and we're only going through with it because we have no choice. We would have never been romantically interested to each other naturally. You have always _hated_ me and everyone else of my blood status, and I have _always_ thought you to be a self-important twit.”

 

“That doesn't mean our engagement isn't real,” he said, hotly. “We will still be married. You will still carry my heirs. I will not _stand_ for you engaging in such relationships with other people.”

 

She felt her spine stiffen as fury slowly suffused her. “Careful, Draco,” she said, through clenched teeth.

 

He didn't look happy, but he cut off whatever he'd been about to say, pressing his teeth together so hard his jaw turned white. In fact, for a moment, he looked downright miserable.

 

Feeling herself soften a bit, she said, “Look. Maybe Zabini and Penelope Clearwater has the right idea.” At his sharp, incredulous, and _angry_ look, she hastened to add: “There's nothing in the contract that says we have to be faithful to one another. So long as the heirs are yours, what's the harm in us pursuing people who might be better suited for us?”

 

“No.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “That's it? Just, no?”

 

“That's right. No. When we are married, we will be married,” he said, forcefully. “You will be my wife and my partner and my confidant and my friend and I will not allow you to decide otherwise.” There was almost a sense of panic to the way he said it, and Hermione stared at him, utterly bewildered.

 

“What's the matter with you?” she asked, frowning.

 

“ _Nothing_. Perhaps I simply don't want my marriage to be a sham, too, did you ever think about that?” he snapped, and then a pained expression crossed his face. He hadn't meant to say that.

 

Hermione leaned back in her chair, momentarily speechless.

 

“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice sounding strangely raw. “I'm sorry for not defending you to Pansy. And I'm sorry for letting you think that... that I thought that about you. I don't think that about you. I never did. And Pansy's not even a virgin, so, I don't want you to be upset over anything she has to say about you, either.”

 

Her eyebrows shot up. “She's _not_ a virgin?” she demanded, her jaw dropping in outrage. “That little _pug-faced_ English _bulldog_!”

 

The insult startled Draco into a huffed laugh, but he quickly sobered. “Hermione, I'm sorry,” he said, earnestly. “Please tell me you forgive me.”

 

She hesitated. Her mind was running a million miles a minute, and her churning emotions were not helping any. She didn't know what to say to him. She didn't think she could forgive and forget that easily, but she didn't want him to give up on her, either. “I don't know if I can,” she said, softly. “Right now. I think I can, later. I know you don't like being patient, but I don't want to say I forgive you when I don't. It's not fair to you to have me still be angry after I'm supposed to have let it go. Can you be patient with me until I can?”

 

He licked his lips, swallowing. But he nodded. “Yeah.”

 

A little relieved, she ventured, “Do you forgive me for that pod?”

 

Draco deflated a bit. “I... I think I do,” he said. “After you explained at my mother's party, I did understand a little better as to why you had it. I wish...” He trailed off, and Hermione watched in shock as he flushed a bit. “I wish I wasn't the sort of person that makes you afraid that I'll do that to you.”

 

Ouch. She thought she'd gotten over feeling guilt where Draco Malfoy was concerned, but apparently he still had the capacity to surprise her. “You're not. I told you before: I got it before I knew you properly.”

 

He nodded.

 

For a moment, a certain pall hung over the both of them. The air between them felt heavy, and tense, riddled with more emotions than Hermione knew how to sort through properly. She wasn't sure if they'd ever get back to that nicer point in their relationship, when they'd shared a kiss on the broom. Maybe she'd doomed them by explaining her secret of only liking the fourth through eighth dates. Maybe it was all downhill from here.

 

Maybe--

 

The server arrived with their sushi, and Draco stared at the foreign food as the server set it down and then left the table. Silence reigned for a few minutes before he thinned his lips and said, “I'm not eating that.”

 

She burst out laughing, covering her face with her hands. The tension she'd felt seemed to melt out of her as she laughed.

 

When it was over, she wiped her eyes, only to find Draco looking at her sullenly. “I wasn't joking. I'm not eating whatever this is,” he said, scowling a bit. “What is it?”

 

“Try it. You have to at least try it before you decide you hate it,” she insisted. She grabbed one of the little dishes and poured some soy sauce into it. She debated mixing some wasabi paste in, but wasn't sure if he liked spicy dishes. In the end, she left it out. Grabbing her chopsticks, she picked up a piece and dipped it in the soy sauce, holding it out for him. “This is just a tuna roll.”

 

“That tuna isn't cooked,” he said, glaring at it. “And what is that you're using to pick it up? Where are the forks?” he demanded, looking around indignantly as he realized that he was truly out of his element.

 

“No forks, just chopsticks. Try this.”

 

He picked up his own chopsticks and fumbled with them for upwards of a minute, his scowl intensifying with every passing second. “This is stupid. I'm not doing this.” He threw them on the table.

 

“Oh, my God, you baby, just eat it off of mine,” she groaned, frustrated by his ineptitude.

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Then pick it up with your hands!”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Draco Malfoy, if you don't open your mouth in the next five seconds, I'm going to sterilize you,” she threatened, keeping her voice low as she narrowed her eyes at him.

 

He eyed her, obviously unsure if she was serious or not, and then slouched forward and opened his mouth, seething all the while. She pushed the piece of sushi into his mouth and watched him chew it, pulling a face as the soy sauce hit his tongue first. Then she watched his expression slowly neutralize as he continued to chew and then swallow.

 

“There. Not so bad, was it?”

 

He sneered a bit, but picked up his chopsticks. “Show me how to use these.”

 


	19. Wedding Planners

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Nineteen: Wedding Planners**

 

…

 

After Draco mastered the chopsticks (okay, after he became _reasonably passable_ at using the chopsticks), the rest of the dinner ran smoothly enough. He even ordered more sushi. They both did their best to avoid the sensitive topics that had left them estranged for several weeks. After Hermione had roughly gone over what she and Lucius had talked about during lunch, he'd stopped her.

 

“What do you mean, there are people who don't get to eat?” he asked, utterly bewildered. She supposed that was one nice thing about the wizarding world; no one was in danger of starving to death. “How do they survive?”

 

“Well,” she said, heaving a bit of a sigh. What a heavy topic. “They don't, always. There's lots of people in third-world countries who die at a very quick rate. Children, mostly.”

 

“Well, why doesn't anyone do anything?” he huffed.

 

She chuckled, but it sounded a bit sad. “It's not that easy,” she said. She placed her little ramekin of soy sauce and wasabi paste on the finished sushi plate, and did the same with his. “There's lots of charities that are geared towards providing food to those people, but it costs money to run a charity, too. Some of the charities you could donate to as a regular person don't actually provide much assistance.”

 

“Surely there's other avenues besides charities.”

 

Hermione nodded. “There are, but they're still difficult. In the end, food costs money. And those people don't have it. Everything costs money, Draco, even you know that. You just have a lot, so you wouldn't know what it was like to be unable to afford something. Some people in Africa walk more than twenty kilometers every day just to get clean water to drink.”

 

Shocked, Draco just stared at her, his eyebrows drawn together sharply, creating a line in his forehead. He looked down at the finished plate of sushi. “So some countries have a lot of food, like Britain,” he said, slowly. At her nod, he continued. “And some don't have very much.”

 

It was somewhat more complex than that, but she nodded anyway.

 

“So how come a country like Britain doesn't share its food?” he asked, his frown intensifying.

 

“Well, that's a little complicated. Some people _here_ don't always have enough food,” she said, softly. She was watching him carefully as she spoke; she hadn't expected him to become so riled up by the conversation, and she was a little worried that he might lash out. “So there are some people who believe that we should see to the safety of our own before we worry about the hardships of other countries.”

 

“Do you think that?”

 

“No,” she said, keeping her voice calm and even. “I believe that we can help ourselves and still help other people. I don't believe it has to be a choice between the two.”

 

He nodded a bit. “So for Muggles, if you're very poor, you could die.”

 

She laughed a bit. She couldn't believe she was having this conversation. “Yes. In the wizarding world, the Weasley family is considered to be poor. But they've successfully raised several children without risking hunger or their shelter. That's a lot more than most of the world can say for themselves.”

 

Draco stared at her a moment longer, and then scowled. “That's bloody awful, Hermione. I didn't think you, of all people, would be able to say something like that so calmly. All that ruckus you flipped over some _elves_.”

 

“Elves are people,” she said, sharply.

 

“Fed people with homes,” he contested. “Shouldn't you be focusing your energy on those dying due to a lack of those things?”

 

“They're _both wrong_ , Draco. It's a fallacy to insist that the world should only focus on one injustice at a time,” she snapped. “I can care about several things at once, you know. And I do care about those who are starving. I also care about the rights of house elves and werewolves.”

 

“ _Werewolves_?”

 

She bristled. They'd never really spoken of that particular project of hers before, because she had a general idea of how Draco felt about Fenrir Greyback. “Yes. One of my dearest friends was a werewolf.”

 

“Who, Lupin?”

 

“Yes, Draco, Lupin. Remus Lupin, a good man who was killed in the battle that ended Voldemort,” she snapped. “Along with his wife, a brave woman who loved him and their son. Your _cousin_.”

 

He looked like he'd eaten something sour. “Werewolves are a danger, not only to the people around them but to themselves. They become murderous _beasts_ , Hermione, how can you possibly try to defend that? For Merlin's sake, they only exist through a propagation of a deadly virus! They're not natural.”

 

“They become murderous beasts except when they have the wolfsbane potion, a potion they can't readily get access to because they're persecuted by everyone else! If the Ministry could provide that potion over the counter--”

 

“ _They should be put to death_ ,” Draco hissed. “Fenrir Greyback made it his life's mission to infect as many people as possible.”

 

“Because of the relentless persecution they suffered at the hands of wizards!”

 

“So you think that just because you knew one half-decent bloke with lycanthropy, we have to start letting all the other werewolves back into society based on the naïve, foolish hope that they won't murder or infect everyone else. How daft do you have to be?”

 

Hermione stared at him, incensed. “That's an awful thing to say. Not to mention hypocritical. I seem to recall a certain esteemed family who felt encroached upon by Muggle-borns and made it their life's mission to eradicate them all in a blaze of blood and glory,” she said, tightly. Draco's eyes flickered uncertainly, and he scowled. “Everyone resorts to awful things when they've been backed into a corner, unable to defend themselves any more. And when that happens, _I_ am going to be there to defend them, without fail, every time. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you bloody well get over it, because it's not changing.”

 

“What if a werewolf attacks you, hm?” Draco asked, bitterly. “Would you still defend them?”

 

“Greyback was rather eager to bite me, if you'll recall,” she snapped. “And yes, I would still defend his rights as a human being, even if I think he _personally_ deserves as many years in Azkaban as he can suffer before he dies. But he got the trial he deserved.”

 

He glanced around. “We should go,” he said, shortly. “I think some people are waiting for the table.”

 

Hermione grabbed her wallet, paying with a sigh – Draco's Galleons were of no use, here – and stood, heading for the door. Once she was out, she started towards the Leaky Cauldron.

 

“I can't understand how you're so eager to defend such dangerous animals that have proven themselves so eager to hurt innocent people,” Draco muttered.

 

“Funny. Ron said the same thing to Harry when he spoke for you at your family's trial,” Hermione told him, enjoying the fleeting look of shock and outrage that crossed Draco's face. She shot him a small, utterly fake smile, and headed into the Leaky Cauldron, happy to have finally silenced him.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

There was five minutes of silence on their walk. Hermione had decided to walk out her annoyance and declined to Apparate to her flat, and apparently the pureblooded rules of chivalry still applied, because Draco refused to let her do it alone.

 

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, quietly.

 

She sighed. “I understand why you feel the way you do, but it won't change my mind. And I sincerely hope that one day I can change yours. But no, I'm not mad.”

 

“Can we hold hands?”

 

Hermione jerked her head over to stare at him, astonished by the request. He wasn't looking at her, his gaze stubbornly on the ground. She couldn't tell, it being so late in the evening and already rather dark out, but she thought she saw a blush on his cheeks. She sighed through her nose and held her hand out. “Sure.”

 

He folded his hand around hers, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. “I never held hands with a girl that wasn't my mum,” he admitted.

 

“Not even Pansy?”

 

“She's not the touchy-feely type. And I wasn't, either, I suppose. Or rather, I wasn't really raised to be. My parents were affectionate when we were alone, but not a lot of pureblooded families in the social elite are like that. It's important that if you are to be distinguished, it be only for things that everyone else would be envious of. Having a need for hugs wasn't one of them.” He lifted his head to look at the stars.

 

“That's sad,” Hermione murmured. “So did Pansy grow up like that?”

 

He nodded. “Her parents are awful. And the Dark Lord lived in my house once, so I do not pass that judgment lightly,” he added. “They were cruel to each other and to her. We'd been friends since before Hogwarts, you know. She used to cry after playing at my house, because she was afraid to go home.”

 

Well, this night certainly took a turn. Hermione had never imagined any reality in which she would have felt even the smallest scrap of sympathy for Pansy Parkinson. “That's terrible.”

 

Draco sighed. “Yes. And, you know, she's really very annoying. I can't stand her, half the time. All she does is prattle on and on about dresses and other shallow nonsense, or just likes to stand around and judge people, like we're still teenagers. Or maybe she's just trying to be the person she was when I was her boyfriend, in hopes I'll still like her. I don't know.” He swallowed. “But even when she's being a bint, I just can't bring myself to turn my back on her. I don't like her, but she's-- A part of me wants to protect her.”

 

Hermione squeezed his hand, watching his face as he spoke. She wondered if this was his way of further explaining his behavior at the party. She wasn't sure she forgave it just yet – not for either of them – but she _did_ like to understand. “That's good of you, Draco,” she assured him.

 

He shot her a surprised look, raising an eyebrow a little sarcastically, and she laughed.

 

“Really, it is. Noble, even. I'll make a Gryffindor of you, yet,” she teased.

 

“Don't make me puke.”

 

She chuckled. “Seriously, though. It is good of you, but... Sometimes doing things like that for other people can actually be harmful to you both. You should still support her, but not if she makes you act in a way you don't like. You can support her without pretending to be that person. If you were, in fact, pretending.”

 

“I was,” he swore, drawing her to a stop to make her face him. “Hermione, I swear to you, I was.”

 

“I believe you,” she whispered.

 

He looked hesitant, but finally he quirked a half-smirk. “I wish we could go back to that night. And I'd picked up the pod and just tossed it aside without activating it.”

 

She huffed a soft laugh. “You know, a part of me wishes that, too, but... Well.” She frowned. “You know, sometimes things shouldn't be easy like that. If we'd not been stopped, we might have been more willing to ignore each other's faults, and how they can be harmful to us. I think it's better for us if we don't try and pretend like that.”

 

He cocked his head. “What do you mean?” he asked, uncertainly.

 

“Some relationships require more work than others,” she explained. On an impulse, she grabbed his other hand. “That night happened. No amount of wishes will bring us back. But we can go forward. And this time, instead of turning a blind eye to our fears and prejudices and arrogance, we can actually try and be better people to each other. I don't want to hurt you like I did that night,” she said, her voice getting a little desperate when his expression didn't change. “What if I did it again, because I didn't know any better? That'd be bloody stupid, when we have the option of just being honest.”

 

“Honest,” he repeated, swallowing. His eyes flickered away, betraying a certain guilt. “Malfoys aren't too good at being sincere and honest like you.”

 

“That's ridiculous. Your mother knew me all of a week before she said I had elephant hips.”

 

Draco was startled into laughing, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened his eyes again, the soft smile remained, and he squeezed her hands back. “I can try to be honest, but it's going to be a hard habit to break.”

 

“I don't see why. Doesn't it get exhausting, hiding your real self and plotting evil schemes in dark rooms?”

 

“Because you never lived among the other elite families,” he pointed out. “Being like you among them is like walking around naked in a room full of unsheathed swords and tripping hazards. It's just _begging_ to be torn apart.”

 

“The only reason it's so scary to be exposed to them is because you've convinced yourself that it's a fate worse than death,” Hermione said, in a low murmur. “What's the actual worst thing that can happen? They won't _like_ you anymore? I would wager they never much liked you to begin with, if they've never actually known you.”

 

Draco shook his head. “It's a lot more complicated than that. But I'll try,” he said, cutting off whatever argument she'd been about to pose. “For you. I can try to be that around you. And call me a coward all you like, but I'm not ready to do it around them.”

 

She smiled, warmed by the promise, and pulled her hands free of his to frame his face. “You're not a coward. Well, today, at least. Right now. This time.”

 

He scowled. “You didn't _have_ to add that last bit.”

 

“For the sake of accuracy, yes, I did.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He walked her to her door, and when they reached it, she smiled at him, pausing for a bit. He shuffled his feet a bit, and for a second it seemed like they were both waiting for something. He looked like he wanted to kiss her, and a part of Hermione wanted him to, too...

 

But the wounds were still fresh, and in the end, she put her key in the door and said, “Good night, Draco.”

 

“Good night, Hermione. My mother's going to owl you tomorrow,” he warned.

 

“You Malfoys are insanely meddlesome.”

 

“Aren't you a little glad for that, though?” he asked, a slight smile touching his lips. “Your life was boring and we have _really_ spiced things up.”

 

“My life was not boring!”

 

“On your days off, you do laundry and clean like a Muggle,” he reminded her, sending her a pitying look.

 

She opened the door, and enunciated, “Good. Night!” She shut it in the face of his laughter, and felt herself smiling as she propped her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall beside it. She knew it was going to be a long road for them, but at least the person she had to travel that long road with was funny and challenged her.

 

Even if he was a bit of a prat.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Narcissa actually sent _three_ owls the next day, two of which arrived before work and one of which was delivered to her cubicle. They all had sketches of wedding dresses and photographs of flower arrangements and other such fripperies. She did her best to respond, and finally suggested that perhaps her own mother would be interested in helping plan.

 

She hadn't even told her parents that the wedding date had been set. Wincing a bit, she decided to step out for her lunch break to visit them at their office.

 

Stepping through the door of their practice and ignoring the little bell that rang against it, she smiled at the elderly receptionist and waved. “Hullo, Ms. Richardson. Are my parents in?”

 

“Hermione, my dear,” the old woman crowd, coming out of her seat with a good deal of difficulty (she was pushing eighty years old) and hobbling around the desk to wrap the curly-haired young witch in a hug. Hermione returned the hug, noting that the woman felt more and more fragile every passing year. “They are, but I'm afraid your mother's with a patient. Your father is just doing the books, though, come on and I'll show you to the office.”

 

“Oh, it's alright, I know where it is, still,” Hermione assured her. “Please, sit down, I'm alright, really.”

 

“Oh, don't you start treating me like spun glass, too,” Ms. Richardson said, squinting at Hermione over her glasses. “I already get enough of that from your parents, mind. I'm as healthy and spry as I was twenty years ago!” She raised her finger in the air to prove her point, and stubbornly turned to hobble into the hallway.

 

Smiling fondly, Hermione followed.

 

“David,” Ms. Richardson called through the door. “Hermione's here, I told her she could come in.”

 

The door opened a second later, and her father grinned when he saw her, wrapping her up in a hug. “Good grief, Hermione, it's been ages! I don't think I've seen you at all this month.”

 

“Sorry, Dad, I got a little caught up with work.”

 

“You're a little busybug, like me, I see.” He smiled proudly, heading for his desk and indicating the other chair. “Ms. Richardson, will you let Rose know when she's done?”

 

“Of course.” The door closed.

 

Hermione sunk into the chair opposite his, sighing a bit. “This office has not changed one little bit since I was born.”

 

“Now that's not true. I got a new desk lamp just last year.”

 

“It's identical to the one you had before,” she said, flatly.

 

“Well, that's still a change, isn't it?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “It's impossible talking to you,” she said, laughing. “Anyway. I actually came to tell you the news. Narcissa Malfoy finally convinced me that waiting was purposeless. The wedding's going to be at the end of August.”

 

He frowned a bit. She supposed he'd thought that there might have been a chance the law had been repealed. “Oh. Well, I suppose there's no use waiting.”

 

“No, there isn't.”

 

“How are things going with the boy?”

 

Hermione paused. “Okay,” she said, carefully. Thoughtfully. “Surprisingly okay. We've had a few rough patches, here and there, but he's actually matured a lot since school. He's even apologized to me, which is something I never thought I'd live to see.”

 

“What for?” David asked, looking suspicious.

 

She fought back a wince. “Nothing important,” she said, because she was _not_ going to tell her dad about _that._ “Just something careless he said that hurt my feelings.” Close enough.

 

He grumbled a bit, frowning at the ledgers he'd been going through. “Well, if you think it's going to be alright...” He sighed. “I know I can't fight you on it, so I'm just going to have to trust your judgment. But you know I don't like any of this.”

 

“I know,” she said. “And if it makes you feel any better, no one does.”

 

“Your mother does,” he said, wryly. “She thinks that boy is going to be your Prince Charming.”

 

Hermione let out a bark of laughter at the very _notion_ of Draco being _anyone's_ Prince Charming. “Draco Malfoy wouldn't know 'charming' if it bit him on the arse.”

 

“Language.”

  
“Sorry,” she said, grinning.

 

He cut her a narrow look. “In any case, she's been thoroughly won over by him and I'm sure she'll be delighted to start planning the wedding.”

 

“Yes, that's what I kind of came here, for. Narcissa's trying to plan it and since I'm all but useless at party planning, I thought Mum might be a better resource for her,” she said, wrinkling her nose a bit. “Mum knows the kinds of things I like, anyway.”

 

He sighed gustily. “Great. Now I'm going to have to look at flower arrangements and try musty cakes again. I swore I'd _never_ do that again after my wedding.”

 

Giggling, Hermione said, “I'm certain you'll manage.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As expected, Rose lit up like a Christmas tree when she got the news, and emphatically agreed to meet with Narcissa to help plan the affair. Before she could start talking about her own ideas, Hermione hurriedly gave her instructions on how to use the Floo to reach the Manor by herself and informed them both that she had to be getting back, as her lunch hour was almost up.

 

Then she made a hasty escape, leaving her poor father to deal with Rose Granger's ebullient wedding fantasies.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I still can't believe you made up with him, already,” Ginny said, pulling a face. “That rotten ferret should've spent the next _year_ begging your forgiveness before you even gave him the time of day.”

 

“Hermione doesn't have the luxury of another year,” Harry reminded her. “She has to get married by March.”

 

“It's in late August, now,” Hermione murmured. “I finally agreed. My mum is nearly beside herself with joy. I had to give her access to the Manor's Floo in order to slip out of the task of planning the bloody thing. She'll probably drive Narcissa nuts, popping over there every time she has a thought.”

 

Harry winced a bit. “You sure it's a good idea, leaving them alone together?”

 

“Well, why not?”

 

“I've met your mum, Hermione, and she likes to talk. A lot. About you,” he said, eyebrows raising pointedly. “By this time tomorrow, Narcissa's going to know everything about you, from the fact that you wet the bed once when you were eight because you thought a goblin was under your bed--”

 

“Really?” Ginny demanded, a delighted, wicked grin forming on her face.

 

“Harry!” Hermione complained, folding her arms defensively.

 

“-- To that time when you tried to charm your legs smooth in the summer after fifth year and ended up with a blanket of tiger fur on them.”

 

She gasped. “I told you that in confidence,” she whispered, eyes darting to Ginny.

 

“Oh, I already knew that,” Ginny said.

 

Hermione's jaw fell open as she turned a betrayed stare to Harry, who cringed back from her. “She's my wife, I have to tell her things, it's the law!” he defended. “That's not even as bad as the time you found your mother's tampon in the bathroom garbage and hung it on the Christmas tree when you were six.”

 

“ _Harry_ ,” Hermione shrieked, as Ginny _dissolved_ into a fit of laughter, falling right out of her chair.

 

Harry froze. “Oh. Uh. Whoops.”

 

She burst out of her chair, and he scrambled out of his, running around the dining room table and leaping over his gasping wife as she writhed on the floor. Hermione chased him around a few times before remembering that she had a wand, and she grabbed it, pointing it at him.

 

He scrabbled for his and pointed it at her, eyes wide. “Hermione, if you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

 

Hermione's eyes narrowed, and for a few tight seconds the only sound in the room was Ginny wheezing on the floor.

 

Then she whipped her wand, and Harry screamed and fell backwards as pimples blazed across his forehead, forming letters declaring him to be a _TRAITOR._ “Augh! Hermione!” he cried out, feeling his forehead with dismay. “I have to go to _work_ tomorrow _._ What does this say?”

 

Ginny had calmed down a little and looked up at him, and promptly died laughing again.

  
Harry shot up the stairs to the bathroom. His outraged cry carried downstairs, and Hermione heard James and Albus start shouting from their playroom in return. She quickly joined Ginny in her laughter as Harry stomped back downstairs and glared at her as he slowly walked to the door. “I am going to the apothecary,” he announced, holding his chin up high. He stepped out and closed the door.

 

Then the door opened, and his hand appeared to pluck a hat off the coat rack. The door slammed shut again on the sound of Hermione and Ginny's mirth.

 


	20. Thorpe Park

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty: Thorpe Park**

 

…

 

She'd gone back to meeting Draco in the mornings. It was still a little awkward between them, sometimes, but for the most part it _felt_ a lot like it had at the beginning. It was now mid-June, and everything was getting to be almost aggressively sunny. She obsessively applied sunblock, even during their breakfasts together.

 

“What is that stuff?” Draco finally asked, after watching her smear it on her face two days in a row without saying a word. “It smells awful.”

 

“It's sunblock,” she huffed. “It keeps you from getting too much sun.”

 

He just stared at her.

 

“I don't want to get covered in freckles,” she finally admitted, making a face at him. “Alright? I hate them and I don't want any.”

 

“Weasel had freckles.”

 

“I hate them _on me_.”

 

He squinted at her. “You already have some, on your nose,” he observed, reaching across to point at them, his finger millimeters from her nose. Annoyed, she smacked his hand lightly out of her face, and he grinned.

 

“I'm aware, and I don't need any more,” she sniffed. She slathered the foul-smelling goo on her arms, for good measure, and re-capped the bottle and pushed it into her bag. “Besides, sunblock also keeps you from developing skin cancer, which kills people.”

 

He cupped his chin in his hand. “You smell absolutely revolting.” At her glare, he added, “And I seem to recall us having a heart-to-heart about honesty.”

 

“Shut it,” she advised him. Recalling something, she shifted, her tone changing. “Listen, about your birthday... I feel kind of bad for missing it, and I've been trying to find something to get you as a gift, but it's a little hard when you _already have_ everything. I think it's only fair that you give me some pointers. What kind of stuff do you like?”

 

“I have everything I want,” he said, with a shrug. “You don't have to get me a gift.”

 

“I _want_ to.”

 

“It's too late, anyway. Why don't you just wait for next year?”

 

She looked grumpy, and stubborn, to boot. “No. I was supposed to give you one on your birthday proper, but you were being a prat. Now make it up to me and tell me what you want.”

 

“And if I tell you, you'll give it to me, is that it?” he asked, a slow smirk curling his lips.

 

She pursed her lips, sure he was going to ask for some absurdly expensive broom. “Well, I'll _try._ I make a paltry Ministry salary, you know.”

 

He exhaled roughly through his nose, a rough approximation of a soft laugh for him, and glanced around the coffee shop as though seeking some kind of inspiration for what to tell her. Then his eyes slowly panned back to hers, and he said, “Alright. I know what I want for my birthday.” He paused, likely for dramatic effect.

 

When it stretched on, Hermione rolled her eyes. “I'm going to box your ears. What is it?”

 

He leaned across the table, running his tongue over his lips as he grinned. “I want you to take me on a rollercoaster.”

 

Her immediate, visceral reaction was to let her mouth drop open as she stared at him in unmitigated horror. His grin widened as he watched her. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, and incredulous. “I _can't believe_ you remember that stupid conversation.”

 

“I remember a lot of things,” Draco drawled. “So when are we going? This Saturday?”

 

“No! Something _else_ ,” she pleaded, but from her miserable, resigned expression, he knew that she could already tell that he would not yield.

 

“That's what I want,” he repeated. “For my _birthday_. Which you _missed_.”

 

“Stop that!”

 

“And then when I saw you on my _birthday_ , which you _missed_ , you _yelled_ at me, and your friend threatened to turn me into _guacamole_.”

 

“Damn you!” she hissed, scowling ferociously. “Alright!”

 

He smiled, perking up considerably. “So, when? Saturday? Where is it?”

 

“I guess we can go to Thorpe Park,” she said, a bit bitterly. “You realize they're going to want to come. My friends who you can barely stand. They're not going to want to miss a visit to an amusement park.”

 

“Amusement park,” he repeated. Muggles had parks solely for amusement, which contained things called rollercoasters that terrified Hermione. He was really starting to come around to the idea of tolerance for Muggles. “Fine. But the Weasel and his sister need to leave their wands at home. That's for my protection and you know it.”

 

“They're going to want you to leave yours, too,” she advised him.

 

He considered it. “As long as they won't have theirs, I can deal with that.”

 

“You don't want Harry to leave his behind as well?” she asked, curiously.

 

Draco shrugged. “Potty's too decent to try and hex me when I'm unarmed. Besides, a few of us should have our wands, just in case something happens.”

 

“Like, say, we fall off the rollercoaster and die?” She was trying to frighten him off, but it didn't work.

 

“Precisely.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione told her friends, a group which was now slowly starting to include Susan, that she'd agreed to take Draco to Thorpe Park. They were hanging out at Harry's, as they seemed to do all the time these days.

 

“Thorpe Park? Hermione, you hate rides,” Harry reminded her. As if she needed any reminding.

 

She sighed, gustily. “But he wants to go and he wants me to suffer with him. Just like that broom ride. Next time, I'm just going to buy a trinket and give it to him and let that be that.”

 

Susan twisted her head to look up at Ron from where she was leaning against him, cuddling. “You know, that sounds fun. We should go sometime.”

 

“You can go this Saturday,” Hermione offered. “With me.”

 

“And _Malfoy_ ,” Ginny said, making a face. Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait, one minute. You're just trying to get us to go so you can send one of us up on the rollercoaster with him. You're trying to fob us off on Malfoy!”

 

“I am not,” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms.

 

Harry nodded. “Yes, now I see it. That's exactly what you're doing. Admit it.”

 

“No!”

 

Ginny shook her head. “You lying liar. Anyway, I can't go, I have a game to play.”  
  
“Which means I have a game to watch,” Harry added, smiling down at his wife.

 

“I'm watching the shop,” Ron said, laughing. “Looks like you're on your own. Sorry, 'Mione. As for _you_ ,” he added, grinning at Susan. “Yes, I'd love to. Let's all go _next_ Saturday. Ginny, you're not playing then, are you?”

 

“Nope, sounds perfect. Hermione?” Ginny asked, innocently.

 

Hermione scowled at them. “If you think I'm going to go twice in as many weeks, you're insane. And I can't believe you people are leaving me to fly to my death from the top of a rollercoaster. I thought you were my _friends_.”

 

“Friends let friends defy death on their dates,” Harry teased, and Hermione picked up a shoe and tossed it at his head. He batted it away, laughing. “What would the _Prophet_ say about this, do you think? _Girl Who Brought Down The Rise of Lord Voldemort Scared Of Sky-Train_.”

 

“ _Famed War Heroine Terrified of Brooms: How Does The Housework Get Done, This Reporter Wonders?”_ Ron chimed in.

 

“Once I become a rich Malfoy wife, I'm never talking to any of you again,” Hermione promised.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Saturday came by much too quickly.

 

Draco was delighted to know they'd be going alone, and even said it was because he _knew_ she'd try and weasel her way out of her present. She would deny it until the day she died.

 

They headed out into Muggle London, although this time she'd transfigured his clothes into something more casual with jeans and a t-shirt. He'd given her a _look_ at the outfit, and she'd insisted. “You can't go to an amusement park dressed to the nines. You'll look odd. Not to mention you'll be sweating to death. It's hot as blazes.”

 

He stared at her, spreading his arms wide and raising his eyebrows.

 

“What?”

 

“Cooling charm!” he said, as though he were talking to a complete dunderhead.

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“I swear, Hermione, for the 'most brilliant witch of her generation,' every couple of days you manage to say something that makes it seem like you hit your head and forgot everything you ever knew about magic.”

 

“Shut up and let's go.”

 

He blinked at her bared legs. “Are you going in that? Are those clothes? I thought that was a very odd set of knickers.”

 

“They're called shorts,” she said. “And yes, they're normal clothes and you'll be seeing a lot of women in them at the park. I'm not going to waste any more time listening to you complain about my clothing.”

 

“Hermione, I am _not_ complaining,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face.

 

She smacked his shoulder. “Let's go!”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Getting out of the Leaky Cauldron was easy. Draco might even say he was becoming quite used to it.

 

But getting Draco to enter the train station was something else altogether. “It looks crowded,” he said, wrinkling his nose a bit. “And it smells.”

 

“Well, this is how we get there. Unless you don't want to go on the rollercoaster anymore?” she asked, hopefully. He steeled himself at her words, though, and marched in. She sighed, got them some oyster cards, and showed him how to use the turnstile, which he was endlessly fascinated by. After activating the “out” turnstile several times, she grabbed his arm. “We'll miss our train.”

 

“Are you sure this isn't magic?” he asked, pointing at it.

 

“No, it's technology. The Muggle's answer to a lack of magic,” she said, amused. Draco remained wide-eyed as he watched the trains come shooting out of the tunnels and slow to a stop at the stations. He was unimpressed by the crowded and smelly nature of the trains themselves, but he could appreciate them for the dozen times a sudden turn caused Hermione to lean into him as she lost her balance.

 

When they deboarded, he all but bounded up the steps, eager to reach this mysterious thing Hermione loathed. If she hated it as much as she hated riding on brooms, he was sure to love it.

 

Hermione followed at a miserable, snail-like pace, glaring at his back.

 

They were on the bus approaching the park when he pointed out the window, up at the thin line of a rollercoaster track. “What's that?”

 

“That's a rollercoaster,” she muttered, watching as a train of little cars crested over the top. Distant screaming could be heard as the cars hurtled down the slope of it. She shuddered a bit, and felt his arm come around her shoulders, squeezing her reassuringly. But he was grinning like a child, so she had reason to doubt the sincerity of his sympathy.

 

His enthusiasm dimmed considerably waiting in the long line to get a ticket in, and they'd barely moved five feet before he began to grow visibly agitated.

 

“Why is there such a long wait?” he demanded.

 

“Because the park is popular and people want to go,” she said, shooting him a wry look. “And you have to pay to get in. Just be patient. Also, hold this,” she said, handing him her bag as she fished around in it. When she pulled out her sunblock, he groaned.

 

“Am I going to have to deal with that godawful stench all day?”

 

She uncapped it. “Yes,” she said, happy to at least provide him with a percentage of the misery he was heaping on her. She smeared it generously all over her exposed skin as they sluggishly moved forward in line, although Draco stopped complaining when she stooped down to spread it on her legs. When she glanced up at him, he was staring at her hands moving up and down her calf.

 

Scowling, she straightened. “Pervert,” she accused, putting her hand up to his face and spreading the excess lotion on his cheek.

 

He froze. “You will remove this awful potion from my face,” he said, in a warning tone.

 

“Oh, will I? Pray tell,” she said, grinning cheekily up at him.

 

“Hermione.”

 

“Draco,” she drawled, letting her eyes go half-lidded and a little cross-eyed as she did her best vocal impression of him.

 

He gave up and carefully scooped the sunblock from his face. “I do not sound like that,” he said, reaching up to put it in her hair. She squealed and ducked away from his hand, moving out of the line to stand safely five feet away. “Come back here.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

  
“I'll enter the park without you,” he promised.

 

“No, you won't,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

 

The people behind them in line giggled amongst themselves. Draco glanced at them, a family of two middle-aged parents and their two pubescent children. The mother smiled. “You two make a handsome couple,” she said. “She your girlfriend?”

 

“Fiancee, to my endless chagrin,” Draco drawled. “Will you hold my place in line while I catch her?”

 

“Certainly,” she agreed in a chirpy tone.

 

Draco set Hermione's bag on the ground, watching her with a predatory gaze. She frowned, and opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing putting her things on the dirty ground, and then he _sprinted_ at her. And perhaps she'd never noticed because he only ever sauntered everywhere, but Draco could _run_. Her eyes went wide and she screamed bloody murder as she turned to run, but his arms wrapped around her and hauled her against him, holding her squirming body tight as he took the lotion on his finger and shoved it into her ear.

 

She squealed, laughing at the same time. “No! Draco! Mercy!”

 

“I will show you no quarter,” he growled into her other ear, dragging her back to the line. “First, I'm going to spread as much lotion as I can fit into one hand into your hair--”

 

“No,” she pleaded, twisting her head up to fix him with a pout. “Please, I'll do anything.”

 

“Will you, now?”

 

She looked utterly adorable as her laughter lingered in her expression. “Yes.”

 

He leaned down and kissed her. She made a startled, squeaking noise, but soon relaxed against him. All he could smell was that damned sunblock, and he made a vow to himself to visit every store within five kilometers of Hermione's flat and buy out the whole stock and toss every last bottle into the sea. Despite that, though, it was a rather enjoyable kiss.

 

“Awww, remember when we were like that, Henry?” came the voice of the woman behind him. Hermione startled and pulled back from him, blushing wildly.

 

“Oh, yes,” Henry agreed, looking wistful and fond.

 

And Draco looked like the cat who had gotten into the cream. She pinched his side, and he winced, although it did nothing to lessen the faint smirk on his face. She leaned down to grab her bag, brushing the dirt off the bottom. “You cad.”

 

“You like when I'm being a cad.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest again and resting his chin on top of her big, bushy head.

 

She leaned against him, even as she said, “Do not.”

 

She felt his chin move against her scalp as he returned, “Do too,” and she smiled, folding her hands over his arms.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Finally, they made it to the ticket booth, and she bought them both tickets. As they entered the park, she grabbed one of the maps and unfolded it, showing it to him. “This shows you where everything is,” she said. She pointed at one of the rollercoasters. “That's one of the rollercoasters.”

 

“There's more than one?”

 

She looked at him sharply. “Draco, I'm not going--”

 

“My _birthday_ ,” he repeated. “Present-less. Being yelled at. On my _birthday_. Alone.”

 

“Oh, that's not fair,” she whined.

 

His grin returned. “We'll do this one, first,” he said, pointing at the Colossus. He scanned the map, grabbed her arm, and began pulling her at top speed towards the distant shape of the coaster.

 

Only to be confounded by the existence of _another_ line. “We just _stood_ in one of these!” he protested, indignantly.

 

She chuckled at his expression. “It's a theme park, on a Saturday. Get used to lines.”

 

He groaned.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Twenty minutes later, they were finally in sight, and Hermione's amusement had all but fled. She was staring nervously at the boarding area as they got ever closer. “I don't think I can do this,” she whispered, turning to try and head back down the stairs.

 

He grabbed her, pulling her to his chest again. This time, though, it was to prevent her escape. “Muggles wouldn't be going on these by the dozen if they were liable to fall off and kill themselves.”

 

“You don't know that,” she said, her voice growing shriller by the second. “Muggles do all sorts of stupid things. Like skydiving.”

 

There was a pregnant pause. “What's that?”

 

“ _No,_ ” she yelled. “No. I'm not telling you what that is, we're never doing it, so just forget about it!”

 

“You know I'll find out sooner or later.”

 

“I don't care. You will never be able to get me to do it, not in a thousand years, no matter _what_ I do to you. No amount of guilt will get me up there,” she promised, emphatically. “I could kill your owl with my bare hands just for the fun of it and I still wouldn't go.”

 

“You wouldn't kill Hercules!”

 

“Yes, I would, I hate him and I've _always_ hated that stuffy rude little owl of yours!” She was starting to breathe a little hard and fast.

 

His chest shook with the force of his laughter, and he held her a bit tighter, which seemed to calm her down. “You're even more frightful when you're scared than you are when you're angry,” he murmured to her, amusement and fondness dominating his tone.

 

Her fingers were digging into the arms holding her to him. After a pause, she asked, incredulously, “You named your owl _Hercules_?”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“What on Earth is natural about-- nevermind. I don't want to know.” The next set of cars arrived, and she realized with a sinking feeling that they were next. The cars were two seats wide, which meant that no matter where she sat, she'd have nothing but air to one side of her. “Draco,” she whimpered, pressing back into him.

 

“It's going to be alright,” he promised. He'd been watching the people ahead of him board the cars carefully, and pushed her forward, making sure to buckle her in as tight as it would go. Then he sat next to her and did the same to himself.

 

She pulled the bar down and clutched it in a death grip, shaking a bit. “You're the worst boyfriend I've ever had,” she whispered.

 

Draco's eyes went a little wide as he looked at her. “Am I your boyfriend?”

 

She frowned. “Technically, my fiance...”

 

“No, Hermione, forget that. Am I your boyfriend?” he repeated, leaning forward to look into her pale, half-panicked face.

 

Looking hounded, she said, “I don't know!”

 

“Hermione, look at me. Am I?”

 

She didn't think she'd ever be thankful that the ride had started, but they lurched forward and she made a tiny, terrified noise. Draco wasn't even paying attention, but was watching her as they made the slow climb to the top.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Draco, is now the time?” she squeaked.

 

“It's not that hard of a question to answer,” he said, in a reasonable tone. She had no idea how he could be this calm while they were crawling further and further away from the ground. “Am I your boyfriend, or not?”

 

They were almost at the top. She stared at the peak in terror.

 

“Hermione,” he insisted.

 

“God! _Yes,_ alright, you obnoxious prat, you're my boyyaaaahhhh--” The rest of her sentence got lost in a scream as they went tumbling over the edge. She closed her eyes through most of it, because every time she opened them, she'd just scream again.

 

Beside her, Draco was also screaming, but he was screaming the happy, laughing scream of the other riders, his hands thrown up in the air like the people seated before him.

 

A minute later, they were pulling back into the boarding area, her stomach twisted up in knots as she struggled to catch her breath from all the panicked shrieking. The bars across their laps went up, and she started to look down to unbuckle herself from her seat, but Draco's hands grabbed her on either side of her face, tilting her head up so he could slam his lips down on hers. It was frenzied and excited, almost vibrating with energy.

 

People waiting to board began to whoop and applause, but when he pulled back, he was grinning unabashedly, not caring a whit about the attention. They unbuckled themselves and she got off the ride in a daze.

 

Once they were down the ramp and away from the ride, he cornered her against a railing and kissed her again, too excited to leave her alone.

 

“Draco,” she chuckled, pulling back after a minute or two. “We can't snog like this, here. There are _kids_. And if we spend any more time doing this, we're not going to make it to any other rides.” His enthusiasm was contagious, though, and her eyes were sparkling as she smiled up at him.

 

“Kids be damned, I can kiss my girlfriend wherever I want,” he said. He leaned in to kiss her again, just to prove his point.

 

When she pulled back this time, she said, “Oh, no. You're not one of those types who can't get a sentence out without referring to your girlfriend, are you?”

 

“Yes, I am, and my girlfriend would agree with me saying that,” he said, solemnly.

 

She started laughing, throwing her head back a bit, and he feathered kisses along her jaw and ear. “Your disgusting lotion tastes, amazingly, worse than it smells,” he murmured into her ear.

 

“Nobody's telling you to taste it,” she said, smugly.

 

He shut her up with another kiss, both of them laughing and smiling into it before he finally pulled back enough to whisper, “I want to go on the Nemesis Inferno next.”

 

“This is _abuse_.”

 

“Be that as it may, we're going, and I want to sit in the front this time.”

 

“No, I'm drawing a line. No front seats.”

 

“I found out today that _my girlfriend_ doesn't like front seats,” he said, testing the sentence out, and she burst into laughter again.

 


	21. Every Kind Of Love

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Every Kind Of Love**

 

…

 

After another roller coaster ride that Hermione kept her eyes firmly shut through, Draco declared that he was famished and they went in search of food. His eyes were bright as he looked around, his mood seemingly permanently lifted by the rides. She eyed him from beneath her lashes as he looked around the park, his eyes lingering covetously on another rollercoaster they'd yet to ride.

 

Although she very much hated the rides, she was glad he was enjoying himself. And while they were firmly on the ground and he was looking so delighted, she could even tell herself that it was all worth it.

 

“You're the expert, Hermione,” he was saying. “What's a Muggle food I should eat?”

 

She huffed a laugh. “Well, theme park foods are always the same sort of thing. There's not a lot of variety, I'm afraid. Have you ever had a hot dog?”

 

His eyebrows lifted. “No. Is that the frankfurter in the bun?”

 

“Yes,” she said, looking happily surprised that he'd seen one. “So you do know it.”

  
“They sell them at Quidditch games.” He'd always been curious, but everything about his upbringing made him loathe to feed himself with his hands in public like that. He'd never seen them served at the Manor, so he'd figured they were simply confined to certain situations. “Let's get one.”

 

There was another line, and he made an exasperated noise as they joined it. “Does the Muggle world consist almost entirely of queues?” he asked, acidly, scowling at the people ahead of them. Aside from that comment, though, he largely behaved himself as they got their food. When she put mustard on her hot dog, he followed suit, and they found a table (which he complained was filthy) outside and sat to enjoy them.

 

She ate hers carefully, trying to keep stray mustard from going on her face. For a few seconds, he just examined his, and then bit into it, looking at the interior of the frankfurter with interest. “What's this made of?”

 

“Leftover pig skin,” she said. When his chewing stopped and he stared at her, she realized that the dryness in her tone hadn't been clear enough. “Kidding.”

 

“That's not funny,” he said, taking another bite.

 

She giggled. “It's made from meat. Pork, usually.”

 

They fell into a companionable silence as they ate, him looking around avidly at everything. As they finished, she grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth.

 

“Do I have anything on my face?” she asked, tilting her head back and forth a bit to display it.

 

“Yeah, on your nose,” he said, nodding his chin at it.

 

She frowned, wiping her napkin over her nose. “Gone?” He shook his head, and she tried again. At another shake of his head, she made a frustrated noise and _scrubbed_ the spot. When Draco shook his head a third time, she huffed. “What is it? Mustard?”

 

He leaned in, squinting. Then he made a big show of having his expression clear in understanding. “Oh, that's just your freckles.”

 

“You--!” He leaned back as she tried to slap his arm, evading her hand as he laughed. She leaned in to try again, and he scooted down the bench, trying to catch her hand as she swung it at him. He finally did, holding her wrist as she tried to get him with her free hand. He caught that one, too. “You _prat_. I hope _you_ get freckles from all this sun.”

 

“I've never freckled a day in my life,” he assured her.

 

“Then I hope you get _sunburn_.”

 

“I can't believe you would wish something so terrible on your _boyfriend_ ,” he exclaimed. “You're supposed to want what's best for me.”

 

“I think what would be best for you is for you to get a sunburn so you can walk around looking like a boiled lobster,” she sniffed, trying to free her hands. He didn't release her, still grinning. “Perhaps it will teach you some humility.”

 

“ _Nothing_ will teach me humility.” He tugged her towards him, trying to plant a kiss on her.

 

Still peeved, she turned her head, but he didn't seem to mind, planting them wherever his lips landed – on her cheek, her temple, her nose. Soon, she was laughing, trying to break apart from him. “I'm not going to kiss you after you made fun of my freckles.”

 

“I like your freckles,” he said, kissing the bridge of her nose firmly, as if to prove his point.

 

She finally got her hands free, and rubbed the spot he'd kissed, making a face at him. “You know, I think you're too giddy. I was going to suggest we get some ice cream, but I don't think I can trust you not to implode from the sugar.”

 

He smirked, eyes going half-lidded. “Father told me you used to watch me eat candy in Hogwarts. Tell me, Hermione, did you have a crush on me? You seemed to watch me an _awful_ lot.”

 

“Oh, Merlin, don't you start. You knew I liked croissants, did you have a crush on _me_?” she returned.

 

“What if I told you I did?”

 

“I'd call you a _liar_.”

 

His smirk widened, but he didn't contradict her. They both knew there hadn't been any hidden feelings for each other back in school; they'd both been too firmly committed to hating each other. “I can't wait to tell your friends that you fancied me all throughout school.”

 

“I fancied your candy, is what I fancied. My parents almost never let me eat any.”

 

“Then we'll have to make up for all those lost years and get some ice cream immediately, shan't we?” he pointed out, reasonably.

 

Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “You're utterly ridiculous. By the way, we have to wait at least an hour before we go on another ride, or we'll be seeing my hot dog again.” When she saw he was about to argue, she raised her eyebrows. “Believe me, Draco, you do not want to be hit with someone else's sick at fifty kilometers per hour.”

 

He closed his mouth. He couldn't really argue _otherwise_. “Let's get ice cream, then.”

 

After getting their ice cream, they wandered around the park a bit, playing some of the games. Draco was awful at the first one they tried – trying to throw a ball through a hole – and they sat there for nearly twenty minutes as he insisted on trying again and again. She finally had to explain that it wasn't meant to be really easy, and bordered on impossible to win the prizes he was so intent on. He seemed to give in to her prodding to move on, but after a bathroom break, he wanted to go back.

 

And he threw six balls effortlessly through the hole, winning a toy squirt gun. He turned to Hermione to crow about his prize, but stopped short at her narrowed eyes.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Nothing,” he insisted. At her glare, he said, “I may have made it slightly more possible to win.” Behind him, everyone else that was trying the game was landing every ball in the hole, to the stall-keeper's immense panic.

 

She gasped. “You cheated!”

 

“No, _they_ cheated. I'm making up for what I assume to be years of swindling,” he argued, his hands tightening on the squirt gun, as though afraid she'd take it from him or make him give it back. “Now wait here while I fill the reservoir with water.”

 

She reached for the gun, and he held it away from her. “No. You're not squirting me.”

 

Behind him, a crowd was gathering at the stall as people clamored for easy prizes, protesting as the man tried to shut his stall down. “Fine,” Draco was saying. “I'll just go into the bathroom and shrink it. I don't fancy carrying it around all day.”

 

Hermione grabbed his arm in an iron grip as he turned, her eyes warning slits. “Do not come back out here with water in that gun.”

 

He sent her a wink. “So paranoid. Trust me, won't you?” He broke free and meandered into the bathroom. She was ready to bolt when he came back out, but relaxed when she didn't see the gun in his hands. “It's been an hour,” he decided, although it had definitely _not_ been. “I want to go on the next one.”

 

She heaved a long-suffering sigh. It was going to be a long day, indeed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After the mental anguish of all the rides – Draco had even insisted on returning to his favorites, and refused to step on a single one by himself – Hermione allowed herself to be persuaded that Apparition was a far better alternative to the smelly, crowded train. They found a secluded place behind a building selling souvenirs, Disapparating with a _crack_.

 

They appeared in front of Hermione's flat. Draco glanced up at it in the fading, late afternoon sun. “I am not trying to be presumptuous, but can I come in for a while? Your mum and my mum keep trying to get me to look at fabric swathes, and I think they're waiting for me.”

 

She groaned. “Oh, no. I probably have a million owl posts waiting for me.” But she headed up towards her flat door, gesturing at him to follow her. She let him in, and noted with dismay that there were _several_ letters stacked up at her window. She opened it and gathered them in, groaning. “They're _all_ from your mother. You're helping me sort through these.”

 

“No,” he protested. “I'm here to _escape_ those. And I'll have to deal with it all day tomorrow. You should come. I shouldn't have to suffer them alone.”

 

Hermione shook her head, eyes widening. “I have plans,” she lied, quickly.

 

“When will you learn that you are awful at lying?”

 

“I will _make_ plans and then have them,” she said, putting the letters on her kitchen table. She'd deal with them later. “Why don't you do the same?”

 

His face scrunched with displeasure. Hermione logged the new expression with interest. Draco had become so much more expressive around her than when this had all began. She almost couldn't believe she'd likened him to his father, at one point. While they had some similarities, Lucius had been right: Draco was by far more emotional. “I already promised,” he muttered. “Mum cornered me in the dining room right after breakfast.”

 

“And you crumbled like a sand castle.”

 

“You would have, too,” he informed her, in a matter-of-fact tone. He sighed at the letters, and then looked around. “What should we do?”

 

She heaved a gusty breath, thinking. She didn't really want to go out, again. A full day at the theme park had left her feeling knackered, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up with a book and some tea. But that wasn't really a group activity, was the thing. A thought struck her, and she looked at him. “Do you want to watch a film?”

 

He frowned. “Those are the plays you mentioned?”

 

She nodded. “I have a small telly in my bedroom. I don't have access to television shows, because it's impossible to schedule a cable man to come here, obviously, but I watch films sometimes when I don't feel like reading.”

 

“There are times when you _don't_ feel like reading?” he asked, openly shocked.

 

“Shut up. Come on. And before you get any ideas, we're just watching a film,” she said, leading him towards her bedroom. “Just because we're sitting on a bed doesn't mean we're going to _do_ anything.”

  
He raised his hands in surrender, amused, and followed her in. Her room looked much the same as the last time he'd been in there. She gestured at the bed, and he crawled onto it uncertainly, sighing a bit when he realized there was no dignified way to sit on a bloody bed. He sat on top of the covers, his long legs spread out before him as he leaned against the headboard and watched her look through a pile of little shiny rectangles.

 

“What are those?”

 

“DVDs. They have the films on them,” she added, realizing he'd need the extra explanation. “When you put them in the telly, the film will show on this screen.” She tapped the little black box sitting atop her taller dresser.

 

“Those don't look like the tellies I saw in the window.”

 

She looked at hers, a squat little black cube. “No, mine's rather older. These days you can get them thinner and bigger, but this belonged to my parents when I was growing up, and tellies didn't look like that back then. What kind of films-- er... What kind of plays do you like?”

 

“Kind?” he echoed, and shrugged. She realized that plays weren't always as neatly defined by genre as movies were, and considered her collection.

 

Quite a lot of it, she realized, was romance. She wondered if Ginny was to blame for that. She considered some of the more serious ones, but she didn't think Draco would enjoy them, since he wouldn't have the context needed to really understand what was going on. Actually, he might not have enough context for _any_ of them.

 

She picked up _Love Actually_ , and considered it for a moment. She liked the film, and, feeling strangely defensive of her film choices, decided to play it anyway. Draco could think her a sop if he wanted.

 

Putting the disc in the reader, she turned the telly on and got on the bed beside him, crawling under the covers and piling the pillows up behind her. At his look, she said, “Look, I like being snuggled up when I watch films. You can get under, too, if you want. It'll be much better that way.”

 

“I fail to see how the film would be different based on whether or not I had a comforter on me.” But he did get up and crawl under, settling beside her. After a moment, he put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him a little. He watched the little screen as the movie began with a voice-over introduction that mentioned the fateful events of September 11th over airport scenes.

 

“Where are they?” he asked.

 

“Airport. It's how Muggles travel long distances, in planes.”

  
“What are the twin towers?”

 

She laughed, softly. This film was just going to be a parade of questions, she could see. Quietly, she said, “The two main buildings of the World Trade Center, in New York. It was attacked during September 11th in 2001. Terrorists from a Middle Eastern group attacked the site by taking control of some civilian airplanes and flying them directly into the buildings.”

 

“Did people die?”

 

Hermione grabbed the remote, pausing the movie. “Yes,” she said. “I'm going to pause it so you don't miss any of it.” He watched the frozen screen, where a family was hugging at the arrivals gate of Heathrow. “When the hijackers – that's what you call people who take illegal control of airplanes while they're in the air – crashed those planes, almost three thousand people died. The buildings were almost one hundred floors high, and a lot of people were trapped in them when they collapsed. They also hit a lot of buildings nearby, killing people in those, too. One of the planes hit America's major military hub in their capital, as well.”

 

“They couldn't get out in time?”

 

She shook her head, looking somber. “A lot of law enforcement ran up the stairs to try and help save people before the building collapsed. A lot of them died, too. Over four hundred.”

 

Draco looked momentarily speechless. That was more people than had died in the entire Second Wizarding War. “Why would they go into the building if they knew it was going to collapse?” he asked, softly, unable to wrap his head around it. “Did they know the people in there?”

 

“No,” she said, surprised, frowning slightly. “It's their job to help people.”

 

“Even if they're going to die?”

 

“Of course,” she said, quietly. “That's why they do it. Because they want to save people. They think it's so important to save people that they'd risk their own lives to do it.”

 

She supposed it was a little different in the wizarding world; Aurors were mostly there to capture criminals or take action against illegal magic. If a disaster such as a fire happened, most witches and wizards were equipped to deal with it already.

 

“You have to remember that Muggles don't have magic, Draco. If something awful happens, like that, they can't fly away or douse the fires. That's why there are jobs for people to specifically save other people from disasters.”

 

“But so many people died anyway,” he whispered.

 

“But more could have,” she said, firmly. “The men and women who died trying to evacuate a one-hundred floor building on _foot_ are heroes for saving the people they did.” She glanced at the movie. “After that, air travel in America became much more heavily guarded. Everyone on those four planes died, too.”

 

“Why would the hijackers want to kill themselves for that?”

 

She pressed her lips together, smiling sadly. “Because they believed very strongly in their cause,” she murmured. “And they didn't think living was more important than making sure they furthered it.”

  
He was silent a moment. She wondered if he was thinking of his crazy aunt, or some of Voldemort's more fanatic followers. “What is their cause?”

 

Hermione shook her head. “It's hard to say. The terrorist group is large and somewhat scattered. They all have their own reasons and their own end-goals in mind, but for the most part they are attacking countries like America. America has wars going on in the Middle East, and some of the reason is that they don't believe America has a right to be there. Others believe Americans and other members of first-world countries are nonbelievers or infidels, and they believe they're waging a holy war to protect their religion.”

 

“Did the people in the planes know they would die?”

 

She nodded, slowly. “Yes, they did. In one of the planes, the people attacked the hijackers, crashing the plane into a field far away from the intended target of Washington DC,” she whispered. She hoped that if she'd been in that situation, she would have been so brave. “Because they knew if they let the terrorists follow through, more people would die. They sacrificed themselves.”

 

Draco went quiet. “Were they law enforcement?” he finally asked.

 

“No. Just regular people.”

 

He swallowed, looking at the screen. Then he said, “You can start the movie again.” The voice-over continued, promoting the idea of the universality of love as the intro ended.

 

Draco didn't talk again or ask any more questions as the movie commenced. Hermione glanced at him a few times, but he was watching the screen raptly throughout the entire movie, eating up this strange new window into the Muggle world. Movies were a bit different from just being out among the Muggles, she figured. Movies told stories, and stories were powerful; they represented what was important to the people telling and hearing them.

 

And this was a story about hope and love, about people fumbling around with each other. Not only romantic love, but the complicated love between friends, siblings, and parents with their children. Hermione knew from reading wizarding novels that romances in them were fairly straight forward and a little dramatic, much like those from the earliest Muggle stories.

 

Here, though, Draco was seeing a new type of story, where sometimes people made rotten decisions that hurt others, like the story of the man who was carrying on an affair behind his wife's back. He watched as they attempted to remain together through the rift of that hurt, their love for their children absolutely assured but their love for each other forcefully tested. He watched as another man declared his feelings for his best friend's wife, doing so even though he knew he would never get the girl in the end. He watched as that same girl gave him a kiss, not out of love but out of kindness and appreciation for his confession.

 

But he seemed to watch most attentively during the scenes were Colin Firth's character began to relate to the Portuguese-speaking housekeeper after having his heart broken by his girlfriend, and the way they learned to love each other without having a language in common.

 

By the time he was marching into the girl's village, armed with a rudimentary and honestly very poor understanding of Portuguese in order to propose to her, Draco was tense beside her. He relaxed when the girl responded, in broken English, that she would marry him, and a feeling of almost palpable relief poured off of him.

 

When it was over, he was more at ease than he was earlier. “Is it true that gorgeous American girls will swoon over our accent?”

 

“Don't get any ideas.”

 

“I'm asking for _research_ purposes.” He yelped when she pinched his side, pulling away from her to rub at the sore spot. “So that's a film? It was more complicated than a lot of plays.”

 

Hermione smiled. “It's a special sort of film. A lot of films are much more straightforward and only follow a few characters. This kind of film tries to put a lot of stories into the same time frame, with a lot of different characters that are all related to each other somehow. It's an interesting way to tell the story.”

 

He was silent for a moment. “Do you think that man would have had sex with his secretary?”

 

She exhaled roughly. “I don't know for sure. I think he was just... I think after being married so long and being an older man, he was flattered by the attention and attracted to the fact that she was new and young. I think he loved his wife but made a very vain and self-centered decision.”

 

“Do you think she'll ever forgive him?”

 

“Maybe. It's clear that she loves him very much, even if she's hurt by his actions.”

 

His eyes slid over to her. “Do you forgive me, yet?” he asked, softly.

 

She swallowed, pausing a moment. “It... It was very painful to see you laugh at me when Pansy called me a slag,” she said, softly. “It makes it hard to trust you, a little. It's a very important decision, to make it clear to someone that you're attracted to them. That gives them a lot of power to hurt your feelings or reject you. It's hard to want to give you that power again.”

 

“I can't promise I'll never hurt you again,” he whispered. “I know it would be a lie. I'm arrogant, and prideful, and sometimes simply an unapologetic arsehole. And after what happened here that night, I guess I wanted to hurt you a little, at the moment, when Pansy said that. I thought I wanted you to hurt to make up for it. Until you were. Then I realized I hated it. And I didn't feel any better. It was _supposed_ to make me feel better, but hurting you just made me feel worse.” He looked almost confused by this revelation.

 

She burst out laughing at his face. “I hate to break it to you, Draco, but that's because you like me and consider me a friend. And nobody _wants_ to hurt their friends, even by accident.”

 

“I suppose you wouldn't know,” he said, dryly. “I bet life is always peaches and sunshine for the Golden Trio.”

 

Hermione sobered, recalling Ron's hurt remarks in Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. “You might be surprised.” When his eyebrows shot up, she shrugged, smiling wryly. “I've learned since we became engaged that I can be so obsessed with being right all the time that I can be a bit of a prat, myself.”

 

“I don't believe it. Tell me how you came to _that_ conclusion,” he demanded.

 

“No! You just _love_ hearing about my faults, don't you?”

 

“Tell me, and I'll stop.”

 

“Stop what?” she asked, and then began shrieking as his fingers found her sides and dug in, tickling her. “Draco!” Her screaming reached a shrill pitch as she kicked, but the blankets twisted around her legs as she struggled. “Alright, stop! I agree!”

 

He stopped, looking smug as she caught her breath.

 

“Prat,” she gasped, straightening up a bit. “Alright. Well, Ron was first, I guess. I was so wound up after that drawing room incident that I went to see him, thinking he'd cheer me up after I snapped at you that day, when you came to talk to me about it at my cubicle. I guess I was still rather upset, because I snapped at him, too.”

 

She swallowed. It had still hurt a little to hear the raw honesty in her best friend's voice as he detailed the ways she'd hurt him over the years.

 

“He told me that whenever I got upset, I always treated him like he was stupid or picked fights with him to make myself feel better. I never knew that,” she whispered. “But I guess, looking back, I can see that is what I was doing. Making him feel stupid made me feel better, I guess. Made me feel in control when I was feeling quite out of control. And it really hurt when he told me.”

 

Draco frowned. “Because he told you the truth?”

 

“No, because I'd spent four years of my life making him feel like shite every time I felt like shite,” she said, huffing a self-deprecating laugh. “He's my best friend. I'd never _want_ to hurt him. I would never want to be the reason he felt belittled. I hated myself for it.”

 

He internalized that, and then cocked his head at her. “You said he was first. What was next?”

 

She grimaced. “After the pod. I sent an owl to you, if you remember, asking you to lunch. When you said no, I gave up. And they all were quite eager to tell me that sometimes when I know I have to apologize, I'll try to avoid it,” she said, a bit bitterly. “Harry gave me that disappointed look I _hate_ and they told me I should try to make up with you at your mother's party.”

 

Draco's eyebrows shot up so hard they almost went into his hairline. “Your friends defended me from you?”

 

“I know, _right_?” she seethed. “I felt _so_ betrayed. Of course, then I felt rather vindicated when you were an utter arsehole when I tried to apologize, and they went back to hating you, which felt much more normal. Well, Ginny and Ron did, at least. I think Harry's tired of hating you.”

 

Draco fell silent, looking unconvinced.

 

Hermione gave him a soft smile. “Harry spent a lot of years narrowly avoiding death and single-mindedly hating the people he thought were responsible for it. But in that last battle, at Hogwarts...” She sobered, her expression growing grim. “I don't know how to explain it. He looked so exhausted, so wrung out by feeling more things in the short eighteen years he'd been alive than some people feel all their lives. I could tell that he just wanted it be over. Almost like he wanted to give up. Sometimes I think the only reason he didn't was because he couldn't stand to abandon the rest of us.”

 

“You never wanted to give up?”

 

She stared at nothing for a moment. “Yes, I did. When those Dementors came, I just... every part of that year we'd spent running and hiding seemed more than I could bear,” she whispered. “I think all of us. We couldn't even conjure a Patronus. We tried, Ron and I, but we just--” She inhaled, shakily. “I could feel how much easier it would have been to just die, and I just wanted to let them Kiss me and let it be over.”

 

“Potter saved you, I suppose,” Draco said, sounding a little bitter over his long-time nemesis. He was surprised to find Hermione shaking her head.

 

“No. He wanted to give up more than anyone,” she murmured. “He was so tired. Tired of trying to keep Voldemort out of his mind. Tired of being the reason people were fighting. Tired of being the figurehead of the 'Light.' Tired of watching people die to protect him.”

 

“So what happened?”

 

“Luna, Seamus, and Ernie came, thank God,” she said, huffing a soft laugh. “They saved us. Then, well, I guess you know the rest.”

 

“I don't,” he disagreed. “How did Potter survive? What happened in the Forbidden Forest that day?”

 

She smiled, wryly. “Sorry, Draco. That's Harry's story to tell.”

 

“Do you even know?”

 

Hermione fell silent, recalling. Harry had told both her and Ron about _what_ had happened, but it wasn't until after the war, after months of cleaning up the aftermath of the final battle, that he ever mentioned it again. They'd been alone, looking over the plans to help rebuild the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, which he'd insisted be done early on in the reconstruction, to help rebuild morale. Hermione had disagreed, finding it be by far the least important thing on their list, and they'd bitterly argued about it for several weeks.

 

They'd argued again, that day, sitting alone at the dining room table of Grimmauld Place. Ron and Ginny were at the Burrow, and the rest of the disassembled Order of the Phoenix had long since cleared out of the house as their headquarters, ceding it to Harry entirely.

 

He'd demanded to know why she thought it wasn't important to the remaining students of Hogwarts to have something nice to look forward to, to help forget the tragedy of the past. Hermione had reminded him that learning was important, too, and that Hogwarts was a _school_ first and foremost, not a Quidditch stadium.

 

Harry had eventually fallen silent, glaring at her, and she'd glared back. Then, she'd softened, and offered the compromise of building it _after_ the classrooms but before the library.

 

Recognizing that as the grand gesture it was (the library was her favorite part of the building, after all), Harry blinked, and she'd watched in surprise and concern as his eyes went glassy with unshed tears. Horror gripped her for a moment, as she thought maybe she'd made him upset by being stubborn, and she'd told him that if it meant that much to him, they could do the Quidditch pitch next.

 

_He laughed, shaking his head. “No, not that. You're so bossy. If I'd known crying was the method of getting my way with you, I'd have started doing it years ago.”_

 

_She moved to the chair next to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “What is it, then?”_

 

“ _I was just thinking about... About when I almost died,” he said, softly, returning her embrace. “When I went to that place, I told you I talked to Dumbledore, and that he told me what I had to do next. But we talked for a really long time. He said that he only believed I could be the man I was because of you. Because you would keep me from doing things I might regret.”_

 

_Frowning, she drew back, looking into his eyes. She swallowed at the expression she found there. “Me?”_

 

“ _Yes, you bossy boots,” he said, chuckling wetly. “You. The voice of reason all these years. The only one of my friends who would stand against me and inform me in no uncertain terms of when I was wrong or being a prat. The person who I could turn to when I needed help, even when I treated you awful. The person who sat with me and helped me parse my thoughts and feelings before I did something stupid. You, Hermione, the first person to ever really love me after my parents died.”_

 

“ _Ron--”_

 

“ _Was my friend,” he finished, gently. “You know what I mean. He admired me, like everyone else did, but that's because he knew who I was. What I was. I wasn't famous, to you. You had no reason to be my friend, and there were times over the years when I certainly gave you plenty of reason to stop being my friend.”_

 

_He swallowed a bit, and she felt her heart thudding. They'd never really talked about this, their strange connection to each other that had formed into a deep emotional bond even in their early years as best friends._

 

“ _Sometimes I wonder what things might have turned out like, if Ron hadn't carried such a torch for you,” he said, softly. “If I'd have fallen in love with you.”_

 

_She snorted a bit. “If you would have, how would Ron have made a difference?”_

 

“ _Because I would have ignored any feelings I felt growing for you, knowing he fancied you. I was supposed to be his friend, and he was a great friend, and he so_ obviously _fancied you that I would have felt like a prat for going after you, too.”_

 

_She breathed in, raggedly. “I don't know, then,” she said. “I'm not very good at that sort of thing, you see. Being able to tell if someone might fancy me. But I don't think so.” He raised his eyebrows, and she continued, strongly, “Really, I don't. There's definitely something more than just friendship between us, and maybe that would have made us a good couple in some alternate universe, but I don't think it's romantic love. I've seen the way you look at Ginny. You've never looked at me like that.”_

 

 _He groaned a bit. Ginny was still angry with him for trying to sacrifice himself in the Forbidden Forest, and was proving to be quite hard to persuade into going on a date. She liked to spend the months after the war celebrating, and had taken to going on dates with everyone who was very specifically_ not _Harry Potter. “Ginny. That girl is going to drive me mad.”_

 

“ _See?”_

 

“ _It's different. I can feel that,” he said, softly. “Ginny helps me grow past the pain. She makes me want to rise above it and move beyond it. And I feel hopeful when I see her, like I can see my future and I know that_ in _that future, I've left the past behind and I'm happy.”_

 

_Hermione threaded her fingers through his, squeezing his hand encouragingly._

 

“ _But with you,” he continued, earning her attention. He was looking at nothing, and then finally he looked at her, his expression serious, and earnest. “You make me feel like I can stitch the wounds together. With you, I wouldn't be forgetting my past, but going into it and facing it head-on until I'm simply better than I used to be. I don't think I could ever give either of you up.”_

 

“ _You'll always have me, Harry,” she promised. “Until the sun burns out and leaves this planet an icy husk.”_

 

_He smiled a bit, relieved that this conversation hadn't turned on him. “Ginny's the sword through which I blaze my path, but you're the shield that keeps me from falling apart, Hermione. When I almost died that night, Dumbledore said I could move on, if I wanted. I thought about Ron, who was the best mate I could ever have, and I knew he'd be torn up but I knew he could keep going. Then I thought about Ginny, who is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life. I don't think I was in love with her, then, but I knew I could be. And I wanted it, but I wanted to give up just a little bit more. She would have cried and grieved, but she would have moved on and found some bloke that made her deliriously happy.”_

 

_Her mouth went dry. She hated it when Harry spoke like this, hated that he'd ever been pushed to the point of wanting to die. Because she knew it would possibly tear her completely apart to lose him, like the way George couldn't seem to return to his old self since losing Fred. “For me?” she rasped, feeling tears threaten._

 

_He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Of course for you. I owe you more than words can even express, Hermione. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. The guilt of leaving you behind would have never allowed me on that train in that ghostly station.”_

 

_She sniffed, and felt tears track down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, hoarsely. “Thank you for coming back.”_

 

_He pulled her to him, and she sniffled into his chest. “We'll always love each other, right?”_

 

“ _Until the sun burns out.”_

 

_He huffed a wet laugh, holding her tighter. “Until the sun burns out,” he agreed, kissing the top of her head._

 

“Hermione?”

 

Draco's voice cut through her reverie, and she blinked. “Oh. Sorry, my mind was a million miles away. Um... yes,” she said, recalling his question. “Yes, I know what happened.”

 

“And Weasel, too, I suppose.”

 

She nodded. “Most of it.”

 

Draco looked incredulous. “Just most? I thought they were best friends,” he said, confused. His assessment of the friendship of the trio fell more along the lines that Hermione was sort of the tag-along to the main friendship between Harry and Ron.

 

“They are. We are,” she affirmed.

 

“But you know things about that day that Weasel doesn't?” he pressed, wondering for the first time just what was between his fiancee and the Boy Who Lived. “Know things about Potter that he doesn't?”

 

The look on his face and his line of questioning made her shift uncomfortably. “Harry and I have always been close.”

 

“ _How_ close?”

 

“Draco, if you're trying to determine whether or not there's anything romantic between Harry and I, stop,” she said, glaring half-heartedly at him. “There never has been and there never will be. He's besotted with Ginny, and I fancied myself in love with Ron. It's different than that.”

 

He still looked suspicious and unsettled. “How is it different?”

 

She scowled, looking momentarily at a loss. Describing her relationship with Harry was always so hard; she didn't think there were even words in the English language that could do it justice. And everyone had always wondered, even Ron, at one point, and she'd always struggled to explain. The only person so far who had even held a glimmer of understanding without needing an explanation was Ginny. The redheaded little spitfire had the emotional subtlety of a Norwegian Ridgeback, and was certainly the last person Hermione would have ever guessed would understand Harry's relationship with Hermione so readily and easily, but for some reason she'd been oddly intuitive about it.

 

“It's hard to explain,” she sighed. “It's like... I don't know. Have you ever heard of the concept of soulmates?”

 

The anger that suffused his face told her that he had. He stiffened. “You think Potter's your soulmate?”

 

“Not like that. Shut up for a second and just listen, okay?” she pleaded, and he finally inclined his head the barest centimeter. “The concept of a soulmate doesn't always have to include romantic love. It's a person that you meet that you feel a deep and natural affinity for. It doesn't have to include a sexual attraction or any sort of romance. A lot of people believe that twins are each other's soulmates, and I think that's true, because I saw George's face when he found out that Fred died.”

 

She stopped for a second, unsure if she should continue. She felt that maybe it was best to leave that grief private, but nobody in the Great Hall during that moment could have ever argued that George's mourning was in any way a secret.

 

“It was like his soul had been torn apart by a thousand Dementors, but they didn't have the mercy to give him the Kiss. He never really recovered, even though he smiles and jokes around these days like he used to. But sometimes, when he's not putting on the act, you can see a shadow cross over his face. This shadow of immense pain and suffering that will never truly go away. He'll soon be married to the love of his life, will have beautiful children with her, and... he'll probably never feel truly whole, again, anyway.” Arthur had put in a word for George and Angelina, although George hadn't asked him to. But anyone could see that the happiest George had ever been able to get after the war was with her.

 

And he was lucky enough that Arthur had actually managed to pull through with him, unlike Hermione. They'd been announced just the week prior, to their obvious relief, even though Angelina liked to act that she wasn't happy with the situation. But everyone knew they were head over heels for each other.

 

“And that's you with Potter?” he asked, still looking vaguely upset.

 

She nodded. “When I first became friends with him, it was like we'd been siblings who'd been torn apart and were finally finding each other again. We fought sometimes, of course, and he always got on better with Ron on a daily basis – both of them being rather stupid boys most of the time,” she said, rolling her eyes and finally earning a bit of a smirk from Draco. “But while Ron and Harry were best mates, Harry and I always... understood each other. Which is a rare thing to find.”

 

“And I suppose he feels the same way about you.”

 

“Yes,” she said, with pure confidence and not a lick of hesitation.

 

“The Weaselette doesn't care? That you and Harry are... 'soulmates'?” He sneered the final word.

 

Hermione laughed. “Ginny was honestly the only person that never _did_ care. Ron was always paranoid that Harry was out to date me while we were in school, always afraid that Harry would outdo him in everything, including 'getting the girl,' I guess. And I think he was always a little hurt that I would turn to Harry when I was really upset instead of him. I'm sure he'd have thought we were having an affair together if Ginny hadn't been around to knock sense into him. Ginny always understood. She told me on their wedding day that she was happy Harry was able to find me, when we could've been born across the world from each other.”

 

“I guess Potter's lucky his wife isn't the jealous type.”

 

“No, she is,” Hermione disagreed, firmly. “She would hex his balls off if he ever looked at another woman the wrong way. Of course, he wouldn't, because Ginny is the absolute light of his life. The difference with me is that there's nothing to be _jealous_ of. Get it?”

 

“I don't, no,” he argued. “If it were me, I wouldn't enjoy the prospect of having to share someone I loved with someone else.”

 

“If you try to own everything in the world, Draco Malfoy, you'll find yourself at the end of your life with nothing to show for it,” she advised him. “And no one at your side.”

 

He frowned at the prospect. “If I bollocks everything up and end up alone, would you come to my deathbed?”

 

She made a face. “Why so morbid?”

 

“I don't want to die alone,” he said, swallowing. “I'm not a brave little martyr like Potter, Hermione. No matter what a bastard I am, the thought of being alone while I die scares me. Would you come?” he asked again, with a trace of desperation.

 

What a sad state of affairs his life must be, she thought – that the only person he could reasonably trust not to let him die alone at the end of his life was her, his former school rival and enemy.

 

“Yes,” she said. “I promise.”

 


	22. Mother Hens Clucking

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Mother Hens Clucking**

 

…

 

Shortly after, Draco had gone home, determining that it was late enough that he should be safe from getting caught up in the wedding planning excitement. Hermione stared at the zillions of letters on her kitchen table for a long time before she sighed and sat down, opening them up. Most of them were boring, containing more flower arrangements, wedding cake designs, and other ideas for the wedding, which Narcissa had already determined would be the 'Event of the Year.'

 

Hermione really wished it didn't have to be such a grand affair, but she supposed the Malfoys wouldn't consent to a smaller, private wedding. With their status and knowing that any subsequent marriage Draco had after the law's bidding was done was likely to not catch as much attention, Narcissa was clearly determined to make the most of this.

 

She flipped through the letters, trying to determine which required a response, when she caught one:

 

_Hermione,_

 

_You never told me what a charming woman your mother is! Shame on you. She has been regaling me with the most delightful tales of your childhood, and I rather think they might turn useful if we were to assemble a toast..._

 

The rest of the letter blurred a bit as panic set in. Harry, damn him, had been right. Her loose-lipped mother was going to make sure that the entire _world_ knew of every embarrassing thing she'd ever done. The worst part was, Hermione knew there was no trying to talk to Rose Granger about it; whenever she'd tried in the past, her mother had gotten huffy and insisted that she'd not _meant_ to tell such embarrassing stories, and that the stories were really rather sweet and she thought everyone knew that.

 

Now she wished she'd let Draco talk her into coming tomorrow so she could at least keep the worst of it at bay with meaningful glares and interruptions. Instead, when he'd pleaded with her one last time to come to the Manor the next day, she'd refused, telling him he was on his own.

 

He'd informed her that she would _rue_ that moment. He had no idea how right he was.

 

Still, if she showed up, Draco would know something was afoot. And when he caught her trying to keep her mother quiet, he'd try and wheedle the secrets out more pointedly. He really was a horrid little gossip. Hermione would have to make sure that he and Ginny never got alone together. Once Ginny got over her itchy wand finger with him, Hermione rather thought they'd become very good friends.

 

Which was the most terrifying thought to have ever occurred to her. Ginny teaming up with someone as formidable as Draco Malfoy would bring about the ruination of the entire wizarding world, she was _quite_ sure.

 

Shuddering, Hermione turned her thoughts back to tomorrow. No, she'd have to leave Draco alone with them and hope her mother magically discovered the tiniest shred of discretion.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The next morning, she headed to Diagon Alley, mostly because it was nice out. Harry and Ginny were still out of town for Ginny's game the night prior, and she'd tried inviting Susan over, but the former Hufflepuff had sadly informed her that she was actually busy with work that day and had a dinner date with Ron that evening.

 

That left her wandering the street alone, sighing forlornly to herself. She still stubbornly refused to go to the Manor – it occurred to her that if her mother was telling those God-awful stories, she didn't want to have to sit through the agony of the telling.

 

She was paused outside of a used book shop, when:

 

“Well, if isn't Hermione Granger,” came Blaise Zabini's silky voice. She glanced up, catching sight of him in the shop window's reflection, and he smiled at her. “Standing outside a book shop. Astonishing.”

 

“Zabini,” she greeted. At his expression, she turned, huffing a soft laugh. “Sorry. _Blaise_.”

 

“Thank you,” he said. His smile widened a bit. “No plans for the day? It's odd to see you out and about without your little gaggle of friends,” he said, gesturing at the empty space on either side of her.

 

She huffed, ready to start feeling sorry for herself again. “Half of them are out of town and half of them are busy working,” she explained. Recalling Draco's warning weeks prior to stay away from Zabini, she raised an eyebrow at him. He looked and sounded polite enough, and at school he'd been the least worrisome of the Slytherins behind Theo Nott, not doing much in the way of bullying besides offering the occasional pithy comment. “And you?”

 

“I'm frequently seen alone, actually,” he assured her. “I tend to get easily taxed by social situations. I believe it's what Muggle psychologists call 'introverted.'”

 

Blinking in surprise, Hermione said, “I didn't realize you concerned yourself with Muggle things.”

 

“It's not very wise to shut yourself off from information, even if you were raised not to respect where that information comes from,” he pointed out. “I enjoy reading Muggle psychology books. I find them to be useful, and there isn't a great amount of work on psychology from wizards.”

 

She found herself smiling. Blaise Zabini had been less vocal about his prejudices in school, but she'd always assumed he'd had them as strongly as the others. “I'm an introvert, too,” she informed him.

 

“I know. Do you want to grab a coffee?”

 

She hesitated a bit, and then gambled on being direct. “Draco told me not to talk to you,” she said, watching his face for a reaction.

 

Blaise's eyes went half-lidded, although she couldn't tell if his expression was smug or angry. He masked it quickly, either way, and shrugged. “I'm not forcing you to do anything.”

 

“Well, why would he warn me off you?”

 

“Because I know things he wouldn't want you to know,” Blaise responded, immediately. “Draco keeps rather a lot of secrets, and I'm fortunate to be privy to most of them.”

 

Hermione frowned a bit. Draco had promised to be honest with her. “I don't think I'm really interested in knowing all of his secrets,” she finally decided.

 

“Well, that's because you don't know about the ones he has concerning you.”

 

Hermione looked at him sharply, frowning. “You're trying to get me riled up. Why?”

 

He smiled, and chuckled. “It's fun,” he said, dismissively. “It's just coffee, Hermione, and you're not doing anything else with your time. Spend an hour with me. I'm quite harmless.”

 

Looking at him, she didn't quite believe that, but she didn't argue it. Instead, she said, “Why would you want to have a coffee with _me_? You realize we'd be seen in public together.” Her voice had taken on a faintly teasing tone. “I seem to recall that you were not _overly_ fond of Muggle-borns at school.”

 

“Muggle-born or not, you're likely one of the few people intelligent enough for me to enjoy having more than a four-minute conversation with,” he said, and the smile had left his face, leaving him looking serious.

 

She wondered if she should feel flattered.

 

She thought it was a dangerous game, letting Blaise Zabini flatter her. Shooting him a wary look, she finally nodded. “Alright.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I fail to see how the wizarding world is more oppressive to women than the Muggle one,” Blaise was saying, as he sipped his second cappuccino. “If it wasn't rampant among the Muggles, there wouldn't be a whole section of Muggle bookstores devoted to feminist theory and gender studies.”

 

Blaise Zabini, Hermione was shocked to admit, had turned out to be one hell of a conversational partner. He was much more worldly than Draco, in that he apparently regularly ventured out into the Muggle world. He followed Muggle news, citing that it was stupid to pretend that world news didn't have an impact on the wizarding world, and even received Muggle newspapers to his home. He had opinions on social issues, and he debated them intelligently, even if he _did_ still have the same stubborn arrogance she'd regularly encountered in the Malfoy men.

 

All in all, they'd spent almost an hour in the coffee shop and there hadn't been a single lull in the conversation as they argued passionately about everything, from genocide to the Hogwarts curriculum to feminism. She couldn't remember a time when she'd had more fun.

 

Luckily for her, he seemed to be enjoying it, too.

 

“You can't honestly tell me that you don't think that wizards have a morality system that seems like it comes straight from the Dark Ages,” she argued. “And how many women among you purebloods have jobs or aspirations aside from shopping and having heirs?”

 

“How many _men_ among the purebloods have aspirations aside from those two things?” he pointed out.

 

Her eyes narrowed a bit. “Plenty. They're off ruining every decent motion to pass in front of the Wizengamot or meddling in the Ministry or Hogwarts.”

 

“You're thinking of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione. He isn't our mascot.”

 

She smiled. “Are you sure? I don't think anyone's told _him_ that.”

 

He chuckled, a warm sound that softened his usually haughty features. “And you told me you were rarely funny. I never pegged you for a liar.”

 

She flushed a bit. “I'm really not if you compare me to _my_ friends.”

 

“I beg to differ,” he said, with a sense of finality. “I should like to meet with you again, you know. It isn't often I'm able to have such rousing conversations.” Sensing her hesitation, he rolled his eyes a bit. “Come, now. Does Draco have you on a _leash_? Besides, _he's_ friends with me. Just because he has some crazy idea that I'm going to try and seduce you is no reason to stop us from meeting as friends.”

 

“He really thinks you're trying to seduce me?” she asked, squinting. “Why?”

 

Blaise met her gaze squarely as he admitted, “I fancied you a little during fifth and sixth year.”

 

Her eyes nearly exploded out of her head. “ _What_?”

 

He flicked a hand at her and gave an elegant, barely-there shrug. “I was a teenaged boy, and you were pretty and intelligent.” He didn't seem at all embarrassed to be admitting this, which to Hermione was a point in his favor. She knew that if any other Slytherin had ever fancied her, they'd die before admitting it.

 

“But I was a Muggle-born.”

 

“The libido of teenaged boys does _not_ give a rat's arse about political agendas, Hermoine.”

 

She laughed. He was good at flattering her. She had to remind herself to be careful – Blaise was a Slytherin, and she didn't think he'd think twice about lying to her. “Well, why don't you tell him you're over it? You were just a kid.”

 

Another shrug. “Draco believes what he believes. It's hard to turn his mind from something once he's decided.”

 

Well, that was true. Draco was a stubborn prat – and, she'd noticed from her conversation with him about Harry, made easily jealous. She supposed the spoiled brat in him hated the idea of sharing anything, even people. She wondered if he was possessive over Blaise and Pansy, in a way, too. “Oh, well. I'm sure he'll get over it. I'd love to meet again, Blaise. This was a lot of fun.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Blaise Zabini _fancied_ you in fifth and sixth year?” Harry repeated, slowly, his eyebrows riding high on his forehead. “Blaise, the pureblooded Slytherin.”

 

“Or so he says,” she said, shrugging. It was Wednesday, a few days after her meeting with Blaise. She'd told Draco Monday morning about their coffee, and he'd reacted as angrily as she'd predicted he would, demanding that she keep away from Blaise Zabini. She'd refused, staunchly; she was entitled to have any sorts of friends she wanted, and she _liked_ Blaise. He was smart, and funny, and they could actually talk about things that interested her as equals.

 

Draco had stormed off, although apparently his snit hadn't carried over to the next day, because he was waiting at their coffee shop. He tried to convince her again to stay away from his friend, and she'd once again refused.

 

That morning, on Wednesday, he'd asked again. When she'd refused, _again_ , he'd started to get panicky, demanding to know when they were going to meet again. She'd said she didn't know, but his behavior was truly puzzling for her. Maybe Blaise hadn't been lying when he said he knew secrets concerning her and Draco. Or maybe Draco was really _that_ worried that Hermione would suddenly drop everything to have a torrid affair with the man.

 

“Either way, Draco's driving me crazy over it. I can't figure out what his problem is. He doesn't react like this when I talk about you or Ron.”

 

Harry's lips twisted a bit, and he dug his fork into his pasta. Despite spending several minutes convincing Hermione to take a lunch break and dragging her to the cafeteria, he actually found he had little appetite as he listened to Hermione's updates on her life. “Well, he is spoiled. Maybe he's just frantic at the thought that you might choose to leave him.”

 

She frowned. “You know, he asked something odd on Saturday. He said he was scared he was going to die alone, since he was such a prat and was likely to 'bollocks everything up.'” She punctuated the words with air quotes. “He asked me to promise that, even if he messed it up with me, I'd not leave him alone if he had no friends on his deathbed. He said he's scared to die alone.”

 

He grunted a bit, frowning as he thought. “Did you promise?”

 

“Of course! I'm not a monster.”

 

“Did you ever consider, Hermione, that maybe you forgave him a bit too quickly?” he asked, gently.

 

Hermione glared at him. “Not you, too. Don't I hear enough of this from Ginny?”

 

“She's got a point,” he insisted. “You made a _mistake_. When you went to apologize, he purposefully and willingly humiliated you, and then he kicked you while you were down by laughing when Pansy called you names. Sure, he's contrite now, but what about the next time you upset him?”

 

She sighed. “Look, I can't expect you to understand because you're not there when we talk. He is _seriously_ sorry about what happened. He even explained himself.”

 

“What explanation was there?” Harry demanded, incredulously.

 

“He said he felt hurt, so he lashed out. Which is understandable, Ron complained a few months ago that I used to do the same thing,” she said.

 

“There's a difference,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “You don't know when you're doing it. You're not mean. You're just a little careless when you're already wound up, and say things in the heat of the moment. He did it on _purpose_ , because he _is_ mean. Can't you see that?”

 

She flattened her lips. “I told you. If you'd seen his face when he apologized, you'd agree with me.”

 

“I seriously doubt it,” Harry snapped. “I didn't say he wasn't sorry, but it's easy to be sorry. Malfoy's always done the easy thing. He's always allowed himself to be pushed around and made to do things he didn't want to do because it was _easier_ than fighting for his autonomy. He did whatever he had to in order to save his hide during the war. Remember that we saved him from the Room of Requirement, and not an hour later he was trying to convince a Death Eater that he was still on Voldemort's side.”

 

Hermione set her fork down with a clatter. “He was young, and scared. He's trying to be a better person.”

 

“Yes, I can see that, considering how easily he found it to make you feel like utter shite when you tried to apologize to him.” Seeing Hermione's mutinous expression, he sighed. “I'm not saying you can't _ever_ forgive him. I just think you might have done it too quickly.”

 

“He's easily hurt,” she said. “I know he puts on a tough act, but he's got a very soft underbelly and he takes things a lot more personally than you'd expect.”

 

Harry leveled her with a troubled look. “But that's just it, isn't it? He's vulnerable. So now you want to protect him. Hermione, that's what you do. That's what I warned you about when this whole engagement started,” he said, emphatically. “Don't you remember? I told you to be careful of the Malfoys, because you were too good. You want to protect people too much. Even at your own risk.”

 

She started to argue, and he cut her off. “Don't try and say you don't. How many times did you throw yourself in front of me when you thought someone was going to hurt me?”

 

Falling silent, Hermione frowned, her mind churning.

 

“I just want you to be careful,” Harry whispered. “I'm not trying to say that Draco's out to hurt you. I believe you when you say that he likes you. But I'm afraid that you're going to trust him too far and he's going to turn around and stomp on your heart.”

 

“I can handle myself, Harry.” Her voice was quiet. “I'm almost twenty-five. I'm not an insecure little schoolgirl anymore.”

 

“I know,” he breathed, still a little frustrated. “I'm not saying you are.”

 

“I know,” she echoed back. “And it's okay that you're worried about me. I'd be worried about you in a similar situation. But he promised me that he wants to try and be better, and that he doesn't want to be the sort of person that everyone assumes will hurt me. And I believe him when he says that.” She reached across the table, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “He'll probably hurt me, again. I'm not saying he's a different person. But I want to give him the opportunity to _try_ to be.”

 

“You can't save people who don't want saving,” he said, grimly, but he looked more resigned.

 

“Didn't you say that it was because I was your shield that you came back to me?” she said, softly. “Would you ask me to change that fundamental part of myself?”

 

“No, but that doesn't mean I want you to take the blows for everyone,” he said. “Why should you stand out in front and take the brunt of everything while he hides behind you? And how do you not see that it's his vulnerability and fear that draws you to him? It's like a drug to you.”

 

She bristled a bit, and she squeezed his hand again, but this time it was a bit more punishing. He winced, and she loosened her grip. “Don't tell me what I see or don't see about myself, Harry, it's rather condescending.”

 

“It's true. I know you better than you can possibly begin to guess. I know things about you that you don't even know about you,” he said, pressing his teeth together. “He's on the outs with society, he had a rough childhood, an even worse set of teenage years. He was tortured and lived in fear for _years_ as Voldemort ravaged his family, who, against all odds, he actually loved very dearly. That stuff, I'm not debating. He had a rotten go of it. I know.”

 

Hermione chewed her lip, looking down at their joined hands. He followed suit, his voice softening a bit.

 

“You want to protect him and you like him as a person, and that's going to convince you that what you feel for him is more serious than that. You're going to fancy yourself in love with him.”

 

“But what if I _actually_ fall in love with him? Would you support me in that?”

 

“Absolutely,” he said, with such fierceness that she immediately quit bristling and smiled at him, softly. She could always count on Harry. “But if you're not actually in love with him... I'll be able to tell. And I'll tell you. And you're going to accuse me of being unsupportive, or something. And when you do, _please_ remember this conversation, and know that I love you and if I had any reason to believe you'd be happy with him, I'd _never_ try and stand in the way of that.”

 

“I'll remember,” she promised. “You know, I think maybe I should invite him 'round to Grimmauld Place one day.”

 

Harry grimaced. Ginny would not like that.

 

“Ron brings his fiancee,” she reminded him. “I love Susan, but fair's fair. And you should give him a chance and get to know him before you decide anything about him. I'm not doubting your levels of perception, Harry, but maybe he's changed more than you think. Give him a chance, please?”

 

“Alright,” he sighed. “But you have to convince Ginny. I'm not going to fight with her over _Malfoy_.”

 

“Deal,” she promised, grinning. Then, she couldn't resist teasing: “Maybe Blaise should come, too.”

 

“No. I have a strict policy. Only one Slytherin in my house at any given time. There is a maximum Slytherin capacity and it is _one_.”

 

She laughed, and let his hand go to grab her fork again. Harry smiled a bit, some of his irritation leaving him, and they resumed their lunch with much lighter topics, mostly workplace gossip.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Friday morning, she sat at her usual seat at their usual table in the coffee shop. It had gotten to the point where the staff had started saving that particular table for them. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and for a few minutes neither said anything.

 

Then she raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me to stop seeing Blaise?”

 

He scowled. “Will it work, this time?”

 

“No.”

 

“Stop seeing Blaise Zabini.”

 

“No,” she repeated, calmly. “Now that that's out of the way, how is your mother doing?”

 

“Oh, your mum and she are thick as thieves these days. Does your mum not work? I thought you said she was a healer. She's been over at the Manor almost every day, talking nonstop. My father has taken to receding immediately into his study whenever he hears her voice.”

 

She barked a laugh and then stifled it. She shouldn't be laughing at her mum. “Don't say that about my mum,” she said, choking back a smile. Then, remembering her earlier fears, she asked, with forced nonchalance, “What does she talk about?”

 

Draco's gaze caught on hers, and for a second a wicked smile crossed his face. Then he looked entirely too innocent. “This and that. The usual.”

 

“What's the _usual_?” she asked, feeling a sense of dread pooling in her stomach.

 

“Perhaps you should come by and see,” he drawled.

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Draco.”

 

He leaned his elbows on the table. “Did you really come to your mum frantically screaming that you were dying of internal hemorrhage when you got your first monthly?”

 

“Oh, my God,” she groaned, putting her face in her hands as it suffused with red. It was far worse than she'd thought. “Oh, my God. No. She didn't.”

 

“She _did_ ,” Draco said, with impish delight. “Oh, and so much more.”

 

“No,” she whispered, looking at him between her fingers. “Not the Christmas tree.”

 

“The Christmas tree,” he confirmed, grinning widely at her mortification. “Oh, and I think she mentioned the source of your phobia of heights. You weren't scared of heights when you decided to climb your dad's ladder to the _moon_ when you were five.”

 

She groaned, falling forward to let her head thunk on the table. “I fell off,” she muttered.

 

“You fell off,” he agreed. “And broke your arm, and ever since then you've refused to go near a ladder. You called a handyman to change the lightbulb in your bathroom one summer when your parents were away at work.”

 

She slowly folded her arms over her head to cover her ears.

  
He lifted her arms, refusing to let her. “Because you were scared that the goblin would get you in the dark with your pants around your ankles.”

 

“Oh, stop,” she pleaded, raising her head. Her face was bright red. “You're having entirely too much fun with this.”

 

“Do you know just how much blackmail I've collected? You're lucky I like you and won't use it,” he said, grinning rakishly as he reached forward to tug on one of her curls. “If I'd known even a smidgen of this stuff when I was in school, I would have absolutely tortured you.”

 

“Prat.”

 

“Your mum really likes me,” he added. “Can't stop going on about what a charming and nice young man I am. Handsome, too. She doesn't skimp with the compliments.”

 

The waitress brought the coffee and the croissant; she didn't even have to ask their order anymore.

 

“You're not _that_ handsome.”

 

He shook his head, slowly, _tsk_ ing. “What have we said about your fibbing skills, Hermione? Not that great. These cheekbones.” He traced a finger down one of them, ignoring Hermione's emphatic eyerolling. “This jawline. These eyes. I'm a vision.”

 

“A vision of my Boggart, maybe.”

 

“Compliment me, or I'll start asking your mother for more stories of your various adventures through life,” he threatened.

 

“A compliment under _duress_ isn't a real compliment.”

 

“I'll take what I can get.”

 

Hermione glared at him, her cheeks still flushed. He waited, smiling cheerily. “Fine. You're not completely off-putting.”

 

“No,” he said, raising a finger to stall whatever she was about to say next. “Nicer.”

 

She rolled her eyes _hard_ , her eyelids flickering a bit with the force of it. “You're somewhat good-looking,” she tried, folding her arms in front of her chest.

 

“That's _better_ , but I don't think you're there, yet.”

 

She made a face at him, scrunching her nose at him in silent protest. “Alright, Malfoy, you're very handsome, alright?”

 

“You _ruined_ it by calling me _Malfoy_ ,” he said, laughing. “Try again.”

 

“You're. Handsome. _Draco_.”

 

He laughed a little harder, and when it died down, the bout of amusement left his grey eyes sparkling as he regarded her, the smile softening with fondness. “You're beautiful, Hermione.”

 

“Shut up,” she muttered, flushing, but she was biting back a pleased smile.

 

Draco was shaking his head. “No,” he promised, with a wide smile.

 

She ducked her head, avoiding his gaze, a little embarrassed but feeling wildly happy all the same. She spent the rest of their breakfast together with a dumb grin and a blush, as did he whenever they happened to lock eyes across the table. They were in such a good mood that when she suggested, impulsively, that he come by Harry's the next day for dinner, he'd agreed without extracting any promises on the whereabouts of Ron's wand.

 


	23. The Floodgates

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Three: The Floodgates**

 

…

 

The next day, Draco met her at her flat and they Flooed to Harry's. As soon as they entered the silent (and empty) living room, his eyes were roving curiously everywhere. The house was no longer the grim, shriveled up husk it had been when Harry had first inherited it. It still offered little in the way of natural light, but Ginny's tireless efforts had brightened it up, turning it into a cozy, warm house that came across as welcoming, much like the Burrow always had.

 

“Oh, bother,” Hermione murmured. “It looks like they're not back, yet.”

 

“Where were they?”

 

“Thorpe Park,” she sighed, heading for the kitchen. She turned to look at him. “Fancy some tea?” She blinked at the expression on his face – betrayed and sort of longing.

 

“The rollercoaster park?” he asked, looking like a child who had just found out that there had been candy but it had been consumed by someone else. “They went there without you?”

 

She put her hands on her hips. “Don't you mean, 'without you'? I hate that park.”

 

He looked conflicted, torn between wistfulness and irritation.

 

Hermione laughed, incredulous. “Did you want to go?”

 

“Of course I want to go,” he muttered.

 

“Even without me? Just with them?” Well, now she felt bad for not suggesting that he go along with them. Although she didn't trust him not to royally piss Ron off while unattended.

 

He shifted, scowling. “No. I would've convinced you to go.”

 

“So I was _right_ not to tell you. Good to know.” She turned on her heel, heading into the kitchen while he slouched in behind her at maximum sulk. She bustled about putting on the kettle while trying to ignore the fact that he was glaring at her like a toddler about to engage in a _serious_ temper tantrum. She started humming an upbeat tune, just to prove he wasn't bothering her.

 

“Can we go tomorrow?”

 

“No, because it's not your birthday,” she said, primly.

 

“So you're promising to go on my birthdays.” His expression cleared, becoming calculating as he watched her.

 

“No.”

 

He scowled again. “It feels weird being in Potter's house,” he grumbled, clearly intent on being a prat because he'd been denied a trip to the park. “It's small. I thought he was rich.”

 

“It's not small,” she disagreed, in an almost aggressively pleasant tone. “And he is.”

 

“It's tiny, like a shoebox,” he muttered, looking murderously about the kitchen.

 

She turned from the stove to point at him. “You'd better be more pleasant when they get here. The whole point of this little interaction is to prove to Harry that you're not an evil mastermind intent on destroying my life,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Glowering around and muttering darkly to yourself doesn't do much to achieve that aim.”

 

He stared mutinously up at her.

 

Hermione inhaled slowly, and sighed, stepping towards him. “If I promise to take you back to the park before summer's over, will you--” She watched as his dark countenance lifted immediately, a bright smile spreading across his face. She scowled a bit. “I swear, you're bipolar.”

 

“No, I'm a spoiled brat,” he reminded her, reaching for her waist and tugging her towards him as he looked up at her from the chair.

 

“Great, so now I'm just feeding into your negative behavior by giving you what you want when you throw a tantrum,” she muttered. “I'm going to be an awful mother. Especially if the baby turns out _anything_ like you.”

 

“He will. The spoiledness is genetic,” he promised. The hands on her lower back edged down.

 

“Stop,” she intoned, flatly, and he laughed, putting his hands back in an appropriate spot. “The last thing we need right now is for Harry to appear while you're being indecent with me. He'll hex your hands off at the wrists.”

 

“I thought there was nothing going on between you two,” Draco said, sharply.

 

Oh, good Lord. “There isn't,” she said, patiently. “But he's feeling a little protective of me after that last party.”

 

A flicker of guilt crossed his features, and he nodded, dropping his hands from her waist. “I'll be on good behavior,” he promised. “I won't call Weasley any names, or make fun of how poor they are, or how ugly and freckled they are, or their awful hair--”

 

“Get it out of your system now,” she warned. “Because the next time, I'll hex you myself.”

 

“ _Or-their-abominable-thickness_ ,” he got out, in a rush. “Okay. I'm done.”

 

Huffing with irritation (and maybe some amusement, though she'd never admit it), she turned back to the kettle as it started whistling. She was midway through pouring his cup when a _crack_ heralded the arrival of her friends. She turned to face the living room, putting her hand on her hip and giving them her best glare.

 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Harry said, striding towards her. His eyes flicked over Malfoy before he closed the distance between them and gave her a hug. “Ron got sick on the Colossus after eating too much at that Mexican place. There was a _lot_ of people to apologize to.”

 

As he let her go, Hermione leaned around him to look at Ron, who was holding his stomach and looking positively green around the gills. Susan was rubbing his arm in sympathy.

 

Ginny was clutching her sides, still laughing. “You should have seen it,” she gasped, inhaling sharply as she struggled for breath. “It hit Harry right in the face.”

 

“ _Not funny_ ,” Harry said, sharply. “I almost repeated his performance. And then I couldn't even _Tergeo_ it until we had finished all the paperwork and got away to Apparate. It was _on me_ for nearly an _hour_.”

 

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said, weakly.

 

Draco had been watching all of this with wide eyes. Finally, his lips twitched, and he just barely managed to turn his laugh into a cough and a clearing of his throat. He put his fist to his lips, and tried to look appropriately serious when Harry shot him a damning glare.

 

Susan wandered into the kitchen, looking at the mugs on the counter. “Is that tea? Should calm his stomach.”

 

Hermione nodded, gesturing at her to go ahead. “How much did he eat?” she asked Harry.

 

“The _usual_ Ron amount.”

 

“And then he went on a rollercoaster. Ron, what were you thinking? You're supposed to wait an hour after eating.”

 

He slumped on the couch, eyes closed as he held his stomach. “Fat lot of good your nagging's doing me an hour after the fact. Where were you when I was eating half my body weight in tacos?” Susan brought him the tea, and he gripped it, looking up at her pitifully.

 

Ginny managed to straighten up for the first time since arriving, groaning as she clutched her sides. “Oh, I've got a stitch,” she complained. She looked at Harry and sobbed out another laugh. “Right in the face.”

 

Harry's look could have killed as he turned pointedly away to make himself a cup of tea.

 

His wife leaned against the entryway to the kitchen, her amusement lingering even when she looked at Draco. “Hi, Ferret,” she drawled out, eyebrows bouncing a bit as the grin lingered on her face. “Having fun, yet?”

 

“Amazingly, yes. So much,” Draco said, lowering his hand to reveal the shit-eating grin that had formed. “Can you pull that memory out into a Pensieve for me?”

 

“Be nice,” Hermione commanded, passing Harry the sugar.

 

Draco gestured at Ginny and said, defensively, “I am attempting to talk to your friend about her day. If that is not the essence of manners, I don't know what is.”

 

“You know what you're doing.” Hermione's eyes were slits.

 

He turned back to Ginny, trying to keep the shit-eating grin off his face. He wasn't particularly succeeding. “Did anything else momentous happen today that could have possibly eclipsed Harry Potter receiving a faceful of half-digested burrito?” he asked, in the calmest, most polite tone she'd ever heard out of him.

 

Harry turned to glare daggers at Draco, and then at his wife, who was struggling to keep from bursting into laughter. She looked at Harry in agony as she bit at the inside of her lips, knowing that he'd be _very_ irate with her if she laughed at Draco's taunting. “No,” she managed to squeak, sounding strangled.

 

Draco turned to Harry. “You were on the rollercoaster, right?”

 

The Auror sipped his tea, watching Draco suspiciously. “Yes,” he said, slowly, wondering where Draco was going with this.

 

The blond winced in utterly fake sympathy. “So you were screaming?”

 

Hermione gasped in horror, looking at Harry as disgust suffused her expression. Ginny let out a fantastic spray of _SPPPBBBBTTTPPPTTT_ and collapsed against the wall with laughter again.

 

Harry bore the laughter and the disgust with seething stoicism, his jaw clenched.

 

He looked at Hermione's face and exploded, “Yes, it got in my mouth, _okay_?”

 

She screamed a bit in sympathetic dismay, throwing a hand over her mouth as she fought the compulsion to gag. Draco looked like his birthday and Christmas had arrived all at the same time, and was watching the proceedings with open glee.

 

Ginny managed to stumble to the fridge. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Harry, you're going to kill me.” She pulled out a covered casserole pan from the fridge. “Tonight's dinner,” she said, wincing a bit.

 

“What is it?” he asked, squinting at it.

 

“Enchiladas,” she said, grimacing a bit as Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

 

He set his tea down carefully, his appetite having apparently disappeared. “Put it away,” he whispered. Ginny put it back in the fridge. Everyone stared at him as he stood there, frozen, internalizing the trauma of his day. Then he nodded to himself, and said, “Well, we're going out to eat, so everyone get their coats.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They ended up at a Muggle pub near Harry's house.

 

Ron's queasiness seemed to magically vanish the second he smelled food, because he ordered fish and chips the very second the waitress came by. Harry glared at him, and he flushed. “What?” he asked, defensively. “I didn't get to digest the food at the park. I'm still hungry.”

 

Harry turned to Hermione. “Why are we friends with him?” he asked, faux-serious.

 

“ _You_ picked him, not me,” she reminded him, archly.

 

Ron sputtered indignantly, his ears going red. “It was just a little vomit, mate, buck up,” he tried.

 

Harry twisted to face him. “Just a little vomit? Ron, when it's going _into my mouth_ , there is _no such thing_ as 'too small an amount of vomit' from another person,” he said, slowly and making sure to enunciate every syllable. Huffing furiously, he repeated, in a low mutter, “Just a 'little vomit'.”

 

Hermione was chortling, but she stopped when Harry turned to glare at her, utterly betrayed. She pressed her lips together, her shoulders shaking.

 

“Not you,” he said, shaking his head grimly. “Ginny, yes, but not you.”

 

She felt it begin to escape again, and clapped a hand over her mouth, inhaling deeply through her nose to try and calm herself. “Well...” she said, hesitantly, her voice a little higher than normal as she struggled to keep from laughing. “You have to admit that from outside perspective, it's the _tiniest bit_ amusing--”

 

“I'm traumatized!”

 

Hermione bit her lower lip, and then pointed at Ginny. “Ginny laughed _first_ ,” she said, eager to pass the blame.

 

“Hey!” Ginny said, outraged.

 

“That's it. You're both excommunicated. I'm not talking to either of you. Ever again,” Harry declared, picking up his menu and staring furiously into it.

 

Snickering quietly, Hermione turned away from Harry to try and hide it, and met Draco's endlessly amused stare. They shared a broad grin, and he grabbed her hand under the table, running his thumb over her knuckles.

 

“Anyway,” Ginny broke through the silence. “Malfoy. How's the wedding plans?”

 

“They're coming along, and I am ruthlessly updated every four minutes as to how they've progressed,” he said, sounding rather aggrieved by this fact. Their ales arrived, and he reached for his in tandem with everyone else. “Currently, my mother has managed to shave the list of attendees to a _paltry_ four hundred.”

 

Hermione choked on her ale, and spluttered and coughed, grabbing at her chest. That must have been good enough to shatter Harry's interaction embargo, because he quickly started smacking her back. She grimaced. “Ow,” she complained, gasping, and shooting Harry a glare. He was hitting her that hard on purpose. His quick grin in response to her confirmed it. Ignoring him for now, she turned to Draco. “Four hundred? You're not serious. Do you even know four hundred people?”

 

He shrugged. “Probably. It's a society event. Everyone who's ever been important to anyone is getting invited. Then there's your parents and _your_ friends. You may want to send her a list of the classmates you want attending, too, if you want them there.”

 

So it could be _more than_ four hundred people? Hermione stared at him, anxiety beginning to claw at her insides. “I can't get married in front of four hundred strangers,” she murmured, horror clouding her voice as the full realization of what he was saying began to set in. “Wait, she's not going to bring in _reporters_ or anything, is she?”

 

Draco blinked at her, not sure what to make of her reaction. “Of course she is,” he said, dumbly. “Why wouldn't she?”

 

Hermione gripped the table, feeling a little faint.

 

Ginny's eyes flickered between them, concern growing on her face. It was Susan, though, that spoke. “To the ceremony?” she asked, frowning. “That seems a bit much, doesn't it? Why not have a small ceremony and then she can throw as big a reception as she wants?”

 

Draco looked at her blankly. “I don't know, I guess it's just not usually done that way.” It hadn't occurred to him that there were alternatives to his mother's dream wedding.

 

Susan shot Hermione a worried look. “I think that might be a better idea. Wedding ceremonies are kind of important,” she said, gently, but with a pointed lift of her eyebrows. She was desperately trying to get Draco to understand what she was saying. “Usually they're reserved for close friends and family. _Only_ the people that the bridge and groom _really_ want there. Otherwise, it can be a little stressful for the bride. … Or the groom.”

 

He looked at Hermione, frowning in concern. He lowered his voice a bit, leaning towards her. “I can talk to her. As long as she gets the big party afterwards, I don't think she'll care.”

 

She exhaled slowly. “I... My mother's fine with all this?” she asked, looking confused. Her mother should know what she would have wanted. She knew Hermione wasn't a showboat that wanted a big glamorous wedding.

 

“I've no idea,” he said, honestly. “I'll ask.”

 

Nodding, Hermione leaned back against the booth. Four hundred people, all staring at her in a wedding dress getting married to Draco Malfoy while the wizard paparazzi snapped picture after picture. Knowing her luck, she'd make some weird face or sneeze or something and it would all be captured for posterity in the _Prophet_.

 

Draco was frowning. “Is it that bothersome, to have so many people at the ceremony?” he asked, a little bewildered.

 

Harry reached around and rubbed Hermione's back comfortingly. “It's the reporters,” he told Draco. “The media circus followed us around doggedly for years during... well, everything. It really teaches you to hate getting photographed or asked questions.”

 

The blond wizard's eyes lingered on Harry's hand rubbing circles into Hermione's back, but he looked away before he decided to say something that might upset his girlfriend further.

 

“Then no reporters,” he agreed, easily. “We'll have the usual wedding photographer and we can issue a picture to the _Prophet_ like everyone else.”

 

Hermione cast him a grateful, yet worried look. “Your mother won't mind?”

 

“Who cares? It's not her wedding,” he said, firmly.

 

“But it is yours. You're her only child,” she pointed out, feeling bad at the thought of depriving Narcissa of some of the joy for this day.

 

“Hermione,” he said, raising his eyebrows and smiling slightly, giving her a fond look. “My mother gets what she wants on a daily basis. She wants for nothing and currently lives with very little in the way of disappointment. She'll be _fine_. And she'll want you to be happy.”

 

Hermione nodded, feeling a bit more at peace. Ron and Ginny were staring at Draco, looking thoughtful and somber, and they exchanged a quick look before quickly hiding their faces with their glasses.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After that, dinner went almost shockingly well. Harry warmed up to Draco considerably after watching him handle Hermione's little bout of anxiety, and was soon pointing out that the Ministry was always in need of Aurors, and Draco wasn't half-bad with a wand. Draco made some noncommittal noises (like he'd ever want to be an _Auror_ ), but appreciated the sentiment all the same, aware that this was probably the highest compliment possible from Harry Potter.

 

Ginny had started asking invasive questions almost immediately, mostly about Draco's home life, previous girlfriends, and just about everything else that wasn't appropriate to ask. To Draco's credit, he always manage to answer politely, even if the response was evasive.

 

Susan chatted with him amiably enough, having little bad history with him at all.

 

Ron still looked faintly suspicious, but didn't get aggressive or try to punch Draco in the back of the head, which Hermione counted as a victory.

 

As they were heading back to Grimmauld Place, Draco glanced at the park opposite. “Do you take your sons there?” he asked, softly, lifting his chin towards the park. Harry and Ron were well ahead with Susan, talking about the latest Cannons match. Hermione and Ginny flanked Draco as they walked several feet behind, at a much slower pace.

 

Ginny glanced at the park and smiled. “Yes, almost every day. Right now they're with Andromeda. They love their cousin, Teddy.”

 

Draco looked a little jolted, falling silent.

 

The redhead looked at him, sobering a bit as she recalled that Andromeda Tonks was Draco's aunt, and her grandson Teddy was his cousin. She glanced at Hermione, and then suggested, boldly, “You should come by sometime and meet him. I hope they're invited to the wedding. They're dear friends of Hermione's.”

 

“I'll... discuss it with my mother,” Draco said, quietly.

 

“And how about coming by?” Ginny pressed. “I'm going to pick up James and Albus from there tomorrow. You should come with me, we'll stay for tea and you can catch up.”

 

He hesitated, aware that this was going to be _the only_ olive branch Ginevra Weasley would ever extend. If he refused her, now, she was unlikely to ever do it again. Ginny wasn't the sort of girl who kept giving chances to people who squandered them. On the other hand, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to meet his aunt, who was so detested by her family that she got blasted off the family tapestry.

 

Or what he could possibly have to say to her grandson, the parents of whom had been killed by his father's compatriots.

 

Hermione saw the battle he was waging with himself, and thought about what Harry had said before, about Draco always doing what was easiest. Making amends with his aunt and his cousin most certainly did _not_ fall under the heading of 'easy.' She remained silent. This had to be his own decision.

 

“Alright,” he finally said, hunching his shoulders a bit, his expression growing slightly hounded as he agreed.

 

Ginny smiled. “Great. Come by Grimmauld Place tomorrow at about ten in the morning,” she ordered. “I don't know how to connect to the Manor through your parents' webbing of wards, so just come through Hermione's Floo.”

 

Draco shot Hermione a hopeful look. “Are you coming?”

 

She winced in apology. “I can't. I promised your mother I'd be by the Manor tomorrow to get fitted for my dress.”

 

He looked more anxious, and she fought the desire to tell him that she'd cancel on his mother and go with him to his aunt's. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, willing the compulsion away. Harry was right, damn his green eyes. She couldn't, and shouldn't, be Draco's shield against the hard realities of the world.

 

Some things just _had_ to be done alone.

 

“But I'm sure she'll be happy to see you,” she assured him, and Ginny nodded emphatically. It didn't seem to reassure him, much, but he didn't argue any further.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She Flooed with Draco back to her flat. As soon as they were out from beneath the scrutiny of her friends, she turned to him and pressed onto her toes, pushing her lips gently to his. “You did wonderfully,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

 

He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. “Well, they're not as awful as they were when we were younger. I suppose,” he admitted, begrudgingly.

 

She gasped. “Draco Malfoy. Did you just compliment _Potty_ and _Weasel_?”

 

“No,” he said, sharply, scowling.

 

She laughed, grabbing his shirt to help keep her balance as she pushed up onto her toes again, kissing him more firmly. “I'm going to tell all of your Slytherin alumni that you _like_ my friends,” she teased, and he growled as he wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her against him.

 

“You will not breathe a word of this to _anyone_.”

 

“How are you going to keep me quiet?” she asked, archly, and yelped in surprise as he lifted her a couple of inches to walk over to the couch, dropping her on it. “You _troll_.” Her complaints were quickly snuffed out as he crawled over her, kissing her deeply. Automatically, her legs parted so he could settle between them, a far more comfortable situation then having him lie on top of them.

 

He groaned a bit when he felt her legs move snugly about his waist. She was going to be the death of him.

 

Despite their position, he kept it to snogging, letting his hands move around only in the relatively safe areas of her arms, her waist, and her shoulders. She felt a strange sort of comfort in the weight of him on her, relishing the sensation of being pushed into the couch cushions by the mass of him.

 

After a few minutes, he kissed her jaw and then pressed some open-mouthed ones against her neck, hitting a particularly sensitive spot right beneath her ear that made her moan softly in her throat.

 

He made that rumbling noise of appreciation in his throat again, focusing his attention on it, sucking and biting at it. It felt heavenly, and she let her head drop back, letting out the occasional mewl of approval. She felt his teeth scrape down her neck to her collarbone, sucking and biting there, as well.

 

She felt a flicker of shame as she recalled, in the haze of that moment, his ugly sneer and laugh as Pansy called her a whore.

 

Hermione banished the thought. She hadn't had sex since Ron, and that had ended over a year prior. She was far from a slag, and she'd be damned if she'd let Pansy Pug-Face Parkinson ruin her already pitiful sex life.

 

She grabbed Draco's hand, the one lingering at her waist, and dragged it up underneath her shirt to her breast.

 

He stopped, raising his head to look at her, his eyebrows drawn together in silent question. Lips parted and eyes glazed with pleasure over what he'd been doing to her neck, Hermione nodded, wordlessly, and watched his eyes light up with fire as his hand eagerly shoved her bra up, hefting the weight of her breast against his palm with a groan.

 

His lips slammed back down onto hers as they resumed their snogging, this time in a frenzy as they struggled to divest themselves of their clothes all at the same time.

 


	24. A Collective Sigh of Relief

**The Alkahest**  


**Chapter Twenty-Four: A Collective Sigh of Relief**

…

Draco's mouth slid over hers, and he teased it open with his tongue. The hand on her breast shifted, squeezing her nipple between the ball of thumb and his palm, and she made a surprised noise that quickly turned into a moan. Her own hands tugged at his waistcoat, but the _zillion_ or so buttons were taking approximately forty years to undo.

 

Making a frustrated noise, Hermione pulled back and demanded, "Okay, from now on, you're not allowed to wear anything with more than three buttons on it."

 

He laughed, his breath hot on her cheek, and he reached down into her pocket and slid her wand free, placing it in her hand. "Remember?" he asked, his eyes dancing with amusement as she flushed.

 

"Oh. Right," she breathed. She ran the tip of her wand up his torso, and all the buttons twisted free of each other. She let her wand drop to the floor beside her couch, and spread her hands across his chest over the shirt inside. She let her traveling palms gathering the material of the waistcoast over her wrists, pushing it over his shoulders and forcing him (to his annoyance) to let go of her chest in order to shrug it off. The relative chill of the air compared to his hand made her nipple pebble, and she felt her face grow warm when he stared at it hungrily.

 

A moment later, he was shoving her shirt and her bra entirely up, letting them bunch around her neck as he dropped his head down and took her nipple into his mouth, her hands settling on her waist. He sucked, earning a startled gasp as she arched her back against him.

 

He could get used to this.

 

Feeling her questing hands grow a little frantic at his shirt, he quickly undid all the buttons himself and straightened up to tug it off. When he tried to bow back down to her, she held up her hands. "Wait."

 

He shot her an incredulous look. " _Wait_?"

 

"Let a girl enjoy the view, would you?" She smiled when he rolled his eyes, then examined his form. He had broad shoulders, and the lean, angular form of a Quidditch Seeker. His skin was so pale it nearly illuminated her living room, and she realized that he wore so many oppressive clothes, he _never_ got sun.

 

Fascinated, she reached out and touched his arm. Midway up his bicep, the faintest line could be seen marking the pale skin above the _barely_ darker skin beneath. She realized it was a tan line from Thorpe Park, when she'd had him wear a t-shirt.

 

He made a frustrated noise. "Is this really so fascinating?"

 

She grinned. "Yes. Also, you look cute when you're being an impatient brat."

 

His eyes flashed with amusement and something else. "You're going to pay for that one," he promised, and reached forward to help her fully divest of her shirt and bra. She raised her arms obediently, and he paused to take in the sight of her. Slowly, he reached forward and ran his fingertips down the underside of her breast, marveling at how pale he was compared to her. Hermione had a slight, natural tan. He could see the areas on her neck, upper chest, and arms where she got more exposure to the sun.

 

She flushed hotly under his gaze and squirmed a bit. "Alright, you've paid me back," she murmured, trying to pull him down against her.

 

He went, but he said, "I have not _begun_ to pay you back."

 

Hermione repressed a bit of a shiver at the dark promise in his voice, but her thoughts scattered again as he renewed his kisses and sucking against her breasts. His hands skimmed over her jeans, running over her arse and out to her knee. Then one of them made the return trip up her inner thigh, his hand settling almost possessively over her through her pants.

 

She sucked in a sharp breath, feeling a jolt of pleasure shoot up her spine, and then he pressed his palm in, and she shuddered, pressing her hips up into his hand. "Draco," she gasped. "Bedroom?"

 

"Almost," he drawled, biting the curve of her breast and earning a squeak.

 

The next five minutes passed with him teasing her, slowly driving her mad as he rubbed her through her jeans, which didn't provide nearly enough sensation. "Why don't you take them off?" she finally asked, desperately.

 

He bit her breast again, in reprimand, and she moaned. "Because I like the way it drives you barmy."

 

"Draco," she complained. "You _prat_." She tried to force her way up, pushing on his shoulders, but he was too heavy, weighing down against her and pinning her to the couch. He shifted his head up, suckling on that sensitive patch beneath her ear, and she whimpered as he continued to rub her through her jeans in infuriatingly slow little circles.

 

He let another five minutes pass, clearly in no hurry, until her struggles had died down and she'd closed her eyes, trying to get the most out of the sensation of his hand against her. Then his breath was hot in her ear, startling her. "Do you want me?"

 

"What a daft question!"

 

"I can go like this for a _much_ longer time, Hermione," he threatened, idly. "Would you like to spend the next hour at my mercy, like this?"

 

She groaned. "No," she whined, shifting her hips again. But there was no way to increase the sensation, and she felt like she was going to be stuck in this pleasurable limbo until she _died_ of it. "What do you want?"

 

"Answer my questions," he purred. "Every time you answer them nicely, I mentally delete one minute off my vengeance. And every time you don't, I _add_ five minutes."

 

"That's not fair," she gasped, when his hand sped up a little.

 

"Take it or leave it."

 

She moaned, trying to squeeze her legs together, but his stupid body was in the way. "Yes, I want you," she half-sobbed, half-gasped.

 

His hand sped up a bit more as he lowered his mouth to that delightful spot beneath her ear, sucking on it and earning a louder chorus of moans. After thirty seconds, he was back to his slow teasing, and she contemplated trying to get her wand off the floor to _hex him_. "Good girl," he murmured in her ear. "See how nice it is to get rewarded for good behavior?"

 

"I'm going to kill you," she promised.

 

"I'm counting that. Five extra minutes," he said, smirking as she groaned in misery. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

 

" _No_ ," she complained, and he felt heat pour off her face as she flushed. When he _tsk_ ed, she scrambled to add, "I'm not good at that sort of stuff! I don't know! Whatever you want! Everything!"

 

"You do know," he said, implacably. "You're fantasizing about it right now: What I'll do when I finally stop tormenting you." She moaned, her fingernails digging into his sides, and his smirk widened. "Five more minutes, then?"

 

"No," she said, quickly. "No, okay, okay. I want you to shag me."

 

"Not specific enough."

 

"Damn it, Draco, you know the mechanics!"

 

He chuckled. "But I want to hear you _say_ it."

 

She groaned and thrashed around a bit, and he waited patiently for her to tire herself out. Then, glaring up at him, she began to say, "Well, I would like you to take your erect penis and place it at the entrance of my vagina, located between my labia-"

 

He groaned, cutting her off. "You would ruin a _wet dream_."

 

She grinned, unapologetic even though she was flushing, and shoved at him again. "I've suffered enough. Bed, now. _Bed_."

 

Draco leaned up, conceding, and grabbed her hands to pull her from the couch, leaning in to steal another kiss and enjoying the feeling of her bare chest against his. She leaned into it, and slowly pushed him around the couch and towards the hallway without breaking the kiss.

 

She heard a wooden _thump_ and he broke the kiss to curse, rubbing his elbow, and she realized she'd led them a bit too closely past the bookshelf. "Damn it, Hermione," he muttered, wincing.

 

Giggling, she planted her hands on his chest and shoved him down the hallway towards her bedroom door.

 

After pushing him in and towards her bed, which he sat on because he had little choice in the matter, she quickly unbuttoned her jeans and shimmied out of both them and her knickers. His eyes lapped up the sight of her as she moved towards him, feeling a cursory flicker of shyness as she realized she was completely naked in front of him. She kissed him, more to distract his gaze from her than anything, and undid his pants.

 

She pressed her hand into them, cupping around the hardness of him, and was gratified to hear him groan. She didn't believe he really _could_ have gone a full hour torturing her, and felt vindicated as she rubbed him through his underwear.

 

His hands locked around her waist and he pulled her beside him, pushing her down onto her back on the bed as he stood to divest himself of his pants entirely. She shifted a bit so her feet for facing more in the direction of the foot of the bed, and opened her arms to him when he climbed on to start kissing her again.

 

It was very different from Ron.

 

Ron had been aggressive, but in a sweet way, like he simply couldn't wait to touch her. He'd loved when she got on top, his hands locked on her hips as she rocked against him.

 

Draco was also aggressive, but there was a restrained sense to it, like he was holding himself back for fear of spooking her. He covered her body with his, caging her in with his arms as he kissed her, pressing his palm against her again and then letting his fingernails drag very lightly up her outer labia. He liked to tease, and she got the sensation that he had more fun driving her crazy than letting her drive him crazy.

 

He was a control freak.

 

She was going to have a rollicking good time making him play the other side. "Draco, I _will_ hex it off," she hissed, and he chuckled against her lips and lined himself up against her entrance. She moaned when he finally pushed in, letting her eyes close.

 

Once he was in, he stopped, and her eyes flew open again. When she saw his face, her protests died in her throat.

 

His expression was intense as he stared at her, relieved and grateful and obviously struggling a bit. She could see him vibrating with the need to just jackhammer into her until he felt relief, and could feel him exercising some inner control to keep from doing so. He pulled halfway out and then pushed back in, slowly, and moaned in his throat. "You feel- Merlin, Hermione," he whispered, a little raggedly.

 

He was also far more talkative in bed than Ron had been. She wasn't sure if she minded it; it was certainly different. But she didn't think it was annoying. So far. "Roll onto your back," she said, pinning her knees against his waist.

 

Draco stopped again, a look of confusion crossing his face before understanding set in. Gripping her waist, he rolled them, careful to keep himself inside of her.

 

Straddling him, Hermione smiled down at him as she rocked her hips against his experimentally.

 

He groaned, eyelids fluttering. "Giving you the power was a _bad_ idea."

 

"It was," she agreed, leaning forward to press hot kisses against his chest and throat. She moved slowly, but steadily, at first, and then with increasing speed as she began to get more aroused. Grabbing one of his hands, both of which were running obsessively over her arse, she pulled it around to the front and pushed it against herself.

 

He took the cue readily, rubbing her clit as she moved, and she whimpered with pleasure as she rocked harder against him. He tested out a few different things before he found one that made her slam into him, and kept at that one, even as her movements drove him steadily up the wall.

 

"Hermione," he warned, a little strangled, but she was beyond listening and he was pretty sure if he stopped doing what he was doing with his hands, she was going to kill him.

 

On the other, hand, he was _also_ pretty sure that if he came first, she was going to kill him.

 

While he warred between those two things, he felt it build up and realized he was utterly powerless to stop it. Groaning loudly, he stopped his fingers as it overtook him, and heard her shout in protest. He used both of his hands to pin her against him, sinking deep and rolling his hips up into her a few times, the only thing on his mind prolonging the pleasure.

 

When it was over, he opened his eyes and croaked, "Sorry."

 

Hermione wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him. She'd been _so close_. Not that she hadn't enjoyed watching him fall apart beneath her – it was a singular experience she was sure she'd _never_ forget – but she'd been so. Close.

 

"It's okay," she breathed. "But I hope you're not about to fall asleep, because I'm taking custody of your hand until you're done." She moved it back to her clit, and shuddered as his fingers began moving (a bit sluggishly, at first). She tried to stay still, wanting to keep him inside of her even as he began to soften, but she couldn't help but twitch a bit.

 

He watched her with open fascination, feeling her insides tighten around him as he began to coax her back towards climax. She was breathing hard, in panting gasps, her thighs trembling as she tried not to move.

 

Coming together would have been preferable, he supposed, but he didn't think he regretted going first. This view was immaculate.

 

She came undone with a loud moan, shaking and shivering, her insides clenching around him rhythmically. He drew it out as long as he could to make up for his over-excitement, earlier, until she grabbed his wrist and gasped at him to stop, her body twitching with over-sensitivity.

 

Reaching up for her, he pulled her flush against him, kissing her languidly. Their bodies were sticky with sweat, but neither of them seemed to mind.

 

Twenty-five minutes of lazy kissing later, he felt his cock twitch, and grabbed her hand to curl her fingers around it. "Again," he demanded, and she issued an astonished laugh.

 

"Tonight?"

 

"Until I can't get it up anymore or you're too sore to move," he said, seriously, rolling her over and pinning her to the bed as she laughed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The next morning, she woke tangled up in her sheets with Draco pressed against her back. He'd slept over. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. With Ron, it had been several months before she'd allowed him to sleep after the deed. It just felt so permanent.

 

With Draco, though, they'd done it twice more that night and then promptly fell asleep, exhausted. She knew she fell asleep on the far side of the bed from him; she tended to like her space and hated feeling hot when she was trying to sleep. Sometime over the course of the night, though, he'd moved towards her, crowding her against the edge of the bed she'd fallen asleep at. She felt his breath, moist and sluggish, against her shoulder. His arm was wrapped around her stomach.

 

Feeling a burning need to use the loo, she tried to slip out unnoticed, but Draco roused a bit, made some grumpy, half-asleep noises, and then his arm became like a _vise_ around her. She struggled with it a bit, then said, "Draco."

 

"Mmph."

 

"Draco, I have to use the loo," she hissed.

 

"Mmph," he said, and although it sounded like he was agreeing from his tone, his arm didn't move. She didn't think he was even fully awake enough to know what she was saying.

 

"Draco," she tried again.

 

"G' _sleep_ ," he commanded, irately. _Someone_ was not a morning flower, she thought, growing exasperated. She reached back and pinched his side, and he jolted violently, arm flying off of her to go to the bruise. "Ow!"

 

"Good morning," she said, sweetly, sliding out of bed and quickly padding out of the room towards her bathroom.

 

After relieving herself, she headed back to her bedroom, if only because she was still naked and had to get dressed. Draco was where she'd left him, although no longer sleeping but glaring half-heartedly through his one open eye, his arm dangling off the bed. "You've a nice arse," he said, watching her as she grabbed a bathrobe and wrapped it around herself. "Round and plump and soft."

 

"Quit talking about my arse and get up," she ordered. He did, heedless of his nakedness, and she rolled her eyes. He had no right to look that comfortable naked.

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he grinned at her, his hair mussed from sleep. This was the only time she'd seem him looking so content, without any trace of the pain of the past, _without_ hurtling through the air at top speeds on a broom or a rollercoaster. "Will you make me pancakes?"

 

"What? That's so cliché."

 

"If I don't eat first thing in the morning, I'm an absolute horror all day. Do you want Weaselette to have to deal with me like that?"

 

"Oh, for God's sake. Come on." She turned to head towards the kitchen, leaving him to find his pants. When he joined her there, he was in the pants and shirt from the day before, though he'd left the waistcoat on her living room floor. He approached her as she stirred the batter and eyed her technique.

 

"You're supposed to be fluffing it up," he said.

 

" _Do not_ critique my pancake making if you want pancakes any time in the next century," she said, warningly.

 

"It won't turn out right!"

 

She lifted the whisk and tapped it against his nose, smearing batter there and letting it drip on his shirt. He gasped a bit in outrage and wiped it off, then eyed the batter. "Don't you dare," she said, calmly. "You touch this stuff, and I'm never making you breakfast. Ever."

 

He conceded, although there was a glint to his eyes that immediately put her on edge. "Alright," he agreed, too easily.

 

What was he planning?

 

He meandered out of the kitchen, and went to the bathroom, and she looked down at her bowl of batter and tried to 'fluff it up' like he'd mentioned. What was he even _talking_ about? She harrumphed a bit, deciding it was good enough, and turned to her cabinet to get her pan. She saw him in the kitchen doorway out of the corner of her eye and looked up, her eyes snagging on the brightly-colored thing in her hands.

 

She paled when she saw the squirt gun. "Draco Malfoy, don't-" She spluttered as the stream hit her right in the face, and backed into the far corner of the kitchen, throwing her hands up to protect herself.

 

Where the hell was her wand?

 

On the floor by the couch. Screaming, she ran at him, and then past him as he ducked out of the way, sure she'd been about to tackle him. But instead, she ran into the living room and dropped to her knees, searching for her wand. It must have rolled underneath the couch at some point. A stream of water hit her right in the butt as she was searching, and she squealed, jerking upright – but with her wand clutched in her hand. "You're dead meat, Malfoy," she promised, getting to her feet.

 

He blanched and squirted her in the face one last time before running to the bathroom. She heard the lock engage as she chased him, and pounded on the door.

 

"Get out here, you coward!"

 

"I'm using the loo, you mad woman!"

 

She aimed her wand at the doorknob. "You are not, you're hiding. _Alohomora_." She tried to turn the knob but he was holding it. She rattled it threateningly. "Get out here and accept what you deserve."

 

"... No."

 

"I'm going to pour the pancake batter down the drain."

 

"You can't waste food, there are starving children in Africa," he reminded her.

 

"Don't you dare bring them into this!" She rattled the doorknob again, but he was holding it tightly. She thought for a moment, both of them still clinging tightly to the doorknob, and then considered taking a nicer approach. "Draco," she wheedled, in a sweeter tone. "Come on out so I can make you a nice breakfast. Aren't you hungry?"

 

"Slide the pancakes under the door one by one."

 

" _Damn it, Draco, get out here!_ "

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She had to pretend to walk away from the door before the poncy little coward finally gingerly opened it and poked his head out. She was hidden just out of sight, but leaped into view as soon as he was half a step out of the bathroom. A sphere of floating pancake batter was being held aloft by her wand.

 

His eyes widened comically, and he tried to jump back in, but with a flick of her wand, she watched with grim satisfaction as the white, lumpy stuff plastered itself onto his face.

 

He stumbled against the doorframe, cursing as he tried to wipe it off his eyes. "You can't do anything while I'm blinded," he said, desperately. "It's unsportsmanlike."

"You sneak-attacked me!"

 

He cleared the muck from his eyes and squinted carefully at her through it. "You put batter on my nose."

 

"You were micromanaging my pancakes."

 

Hermione could see him smiling beneath the batter, and was biting back a grin, herself. She _Tergeo_ 'd him, figuring she'd gotten her revenge, and said, "No more funny business, or I truly will let you starve."

 

She made the pancakes with blueberries at his request, and their breakfast conversation was largely confined to whether or not it was more unsportsmanlike to hit someone while they were blinded by batter or to sneak up behind them and catch them in the face with a squirt of water. For obvious reasons, they had to leave the debate with an 'agree to disagree' conclusion.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He popped home after breakfast to get properly dressed. When he came back, he looked a little flushed, and she wondered if perhaps he'd been caught by his parents doing the 'walk of shame.' She didn't ask, since he was probably already flustered from the oncoming tea date with Ginny and his long-estranged aunt.

 

When he stood in front of her Floo looking hesitant, she distracted him with a soft kiss and told him it would be great.

 

She knew he didn't believe her, but he found what little courage he had these days and Flooed over anyway. Harry was wrong, she decided. Draco Malfoy was a self-admitted coward and he did tend to take the path of least resistance, but he _was_ trying, and Hermione could respect him for that, even if she knew that he might fail or fall back into his old ways at any moment.

 

Trying was a lot harder than most people thought it was, so in her mind, he'd already succeeded.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She Flooed to the manor about an hour later. Narcissa and her mother were both there, chatting, and neither made any untoward remarks to her about Draco. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; at least her mother hadn't seen him, or if she had, she hadn't put two and two together, yet. Rose knew her daughter was sexually active, but that didn't mean Hermione wanted to have it out there so brazenly.

 

"Hermione, dear, the fitting is at three, so-" Narcissa was saying, catching Hermione's attention.

 

"Three?" she asked, blinking. "I thought it was at eleven."

 

"Oh, the appointment got moved," Narcissa said, smoothly. Hermione noticed that she declined to say _who_ had moved it, and stifled a bit of a scowl as she realized she'd been bamboozled into helping with the planning. "I have all the flower arrangements in the dining room. Let's go look and you can determine which you like best."

 

When she got there, Hermione stared at the mass of flowers. There were some arrangements that Rose and Narcissa insisted were different, even though Hermione couldn't see how they were.

 

The only one that caught her eye was a bright yellow arrangement, with a mixture of yellow roses and some other cheerful looking flowers. Narcissa's sharp eyes caught her lingering over it, and she pounced, "Those ones? You like the yellow? I think I could have the gazebo done up in these, as well, it would be a rather simple charm..."

 

"Sure," Hermione murmured. Looking at the flowers made the wedding feel so _real_. "I like it," she said, more firmly.

 

"Wonderful!" Narcissa declared. "Now that the base color is decided, we should really look at some bridesmaid dresses, don't you think?" Rose was nodding in excitement. "It will take me just a moment to gather up the pictures. Hermione, if you'll wait a moment. Rose, dear, help me find them..."

 

They left the dining room, and Hermione stared at the mass of flowers before her. Gingerly, she reached out and touched the yellow arrangement. It was soft and velvety.

 

"Good morning."

 

Hermione jumped a bit, turning and biting back a smile at the appearance of Draco's father. "Oh, you came out," she said, watching with satisfaction as his eyes narrowed a bit. "Draco told me you'd taken to hiding in your study."

 

"I'm not hiding," he said, a little too quickly. "I am working."

 

"On what?" she challenged.

 

The silence lasted only a beat, but she could _tell_ he was searching for a lie. When it finally came out, it came out smooth, and she had to admire his fluency in deception. "A proposal regarding the expansion of the Astronomy tower at Hogwarts."

 

Hermione's eyebrows lifted, leaving her the _very picture_ of polite interest. "Oh? Tell me about it."

 

"It's not finished," he said, with a note of finality.

 

She finally broke, laughing. "You're absolutely stuffed with it, aren't you?" she asked, crossing her arms.

 

He canted his head ever so slightly, his fingers flicking the slightest bit to indicate his begrudging agreement with her assessment. "Planning a wedding was a task not to my taste when I was doing it for my _own_ ," he admitted. "Although I confess that I am surprised you are not here more often to take control of the proceedings."

 

Hermione forced a bit of a smile. "Trying to fight your wife on these things is far too much trouble. She'd eventually convince me to agree with what she wanted, anyway."

 

He hummed in response, thoughtful. "Draco did not return home until this morning." He watched her from the corners of his eyes as her face bloomed a brilliant red, and the corners of his lips twitched slightly in response. "He seemed rather ruffled," he continued, innocently. "Did he participate in an altercation?"

 

She glared at him, crossing her arms harder in front of her. "Shut up."

 

"As you say."


	25. Building Regrets

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Building Regrets**

…

When Narcissa and Rose returned, chatting at _full speed_ , their voices preceded them down the hallway. Lucius' eyes flicked towards the door, and he jerked a nod at her as he speed-walked to the door on the other end of the room. Hermione watched him, snorting a bit with amusement, and then caught wind of some of her mother and Narcissa's conversation.

 

"Well, I thought Hermione should arrive to the ceremony on a white horse. We can charm it to look like a unicorn," Narcissa was saying. "I always wanted to come to mine on a white horse."

 

"Oh, that sounds _lovely_ ," Rose said, and Hermione winced.

 

Her mother was supposed to be here to keep things from going arses up, and here she was agreeing that Hermione should _ride in on a fake unicorn_. A feeling of dread hit the pit of her stomach as the voices came closer, and she edged away from the table and then ran out the far door, after Lucius.

 

When she caught up to him, her trainers thudding softly on the thick carpet, he turned and blinked at her.

 

"You're briefly taking custody of me," she warned him. "You need to talk about something. It's urgent. It might take a while." At his shocked, blank look, she shooed him down the hallway with waving hands. "Go, go!"

 

Turning slowly, still trying to reconcile his quick mind with what was happening, Lucius moved at a stately pace down the hallway while Hermione kept pace, glancing behind her to make sure they weren't being followed. When they turned the corner, she let out a breath, unmistakably relieved.

 

He eyed her from the corners of his eyes. "I would have thought you'd find the planning of an event to be an engaging challenge," he finally admitted. "You seem to enjoy creating order from chaos."

 

She smiled, tightly. "Yes, well... it's quite a bit harder to get in the spirit of things when your mother and your mother-in-law are planning to have you ride into the ceremony on a white horse with a fake horn on its head."

 

"Mm. I recall Narcissa wanted to do that during our marriage. My father refused. He would not let us have the society wedding she dearly wanted."

 

Well, that was sad. And it explained a _lot._ And it was going to make it a lot harder to try and talk Narcissa out of some of this stuff. Hermione felt the dreadful feeling in her stomach get a little heavier. Glancing up at Lucius curiously, she frowned. "Why not?" What was the harm in having a girl ride in on a horse, if she wanted?

 

"He tended to be, as a man, very dismissive of what he considered to be 'frippery.'"

 

"Sounds like you."

 

"Indeed," he agreed, cocking his head slightly. "However, just because I do not enjoy such things doesn't mean I find it gratifying to deprive her."

 

Well, that was just _adorable_. And so unexpected from him.

 

She smothered a smile at his somewhat gentler tone of voice. Hermione had known that he loved his wife and his son – the way he'd acted towards the end of the war when he almost lost them both was evidence enough of that – but for some reason she hadn't really pictured him as giving into Narcissa's whimsies just to make her happy. He'd always seemed too coldly calculating and ruthless. She supposed almost losing everything made one evaluate their life choices a wee bit.

 

He stopped at a door, opening it to reveal what was clearly his study. He inclined his head at her to enter, and then left the door conspicuously wide open as he followed her.

 

"Shouldn't we close that?" she asked, frowning at it. "What if they find us?"

 

"A young girl should never be trapped in close quarters with an older gentleman," he intoned, taking a seat at his desk. "She may be taken advantage of."

 

Hermione stared at him, not sure if she'd heard him right. Was he _suggesting_ that anyone in this house would honestly believe that he might _come on to her_? She started laughing, and he blinked up at her, half-turning in his chair. "You're not serious," she guessed.

 

When his somber stare continued, she stopped laughing, and turned pink.

 

"Oh." Feeling awkward, she stood there for a moment. "But that's ridiculous when you're my father-in-law, isn't it?"

 

"Yes, but I am not your father-in-law, yet," he said, in a reasonable tone. "You may sit, if you wish."

 

She gingerly took a seat, watching him with a faint frown. "Neither Narcissa nor my mum honestly think you'd, uh, _take advantage_ ," she said, sounding the words out with a grimace. Gross. "And neither do I, you know."

 

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I know," he said. "And for the record, I would not. It is simply a matter of propriety. Rules of etiquette exist for a reason, and it is not so that they can be disregarded at will."

 

God, he really was a taskmaster. "Good," she sighed, relieved. "I was beginning to get really grossed out."

 

Lucius, who had turned to some correspondence he was writing, raised his head to look at her, his eyes slightly narrowed.

 

Her posture wilted under the weight of his gaze. "Not that I- think you're gross," she stammered. "Nor do I- not that I think _it's_ gross, or that... you doing it is... gross." Good _God_ , what was she saying?! Swallowing, she said, stiffly, "I'm going to shut up, now."

 

"That's advisable."

 

She flushed, wrinkling her nose. Great, now she'd offended him. She fidgeted, her mind whirling as she tried to think of something to say to smooth things over.

 

What she blurted out was, "Well, you're just so old." She looked shocked that the words had come out of her own mouth, and felt her jaw drop open as they echoed around the study stubbornly. His quill had stopped. "... Der," she tried to add on, feeling her cheeks go scarlet. "Old _er_. Older than... than me."

 

"If I told you in no uncertain terms that I understood the vast sea of years between us, would you be able to stop trying to reassure me?" he asked, curiously.

 

She made a face at herself. "I don't know. I tend to get a little word-vomit-y when I'm feeling awkward."

 

"That, I can see."

 

"It's not that-" She watched him sigh, his eyes closing as he shook his head a little, but ignored it as she blazed on. "It's not that you're not handsome, because you are, I knew a lot of girls in school who thought you were very fit, even though they were still underage, I mean, you don't _look_ nearly fifty, and obviously you've got Narcissa, who would be out of _anyone else's_ league, herself, so you know, you're obviously... attractive."

 

He gave her a strained look, and she realized that he was finding this as painfully awkward as she was.

 

"Although I'm not sure _you're_ even in her league," Hermione continued, to her utter alarm. Why was she _still talking_? "But if it was a contest, I guess you'd be closest." Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Oh my God, why can't I stop?"

 

"I would pay a million Galleons for the answer to that question."

 

Swallowing, she let her eyes pan around the room, and said, "I'd probably not be able to talk if I had a glass of whatever's in that decanter," she muttered, pointing at a crystal receptacle containing a brown liquid.

 

Lucius stood. "If that is what it takes," he agreed, pouring her three fingers of the stuff into an equally expensive-looking glass.

 

Crossing back over to her, he handed it to her, and she took it meekly. She'd really put her foot in it. "Sorry," she mumbled, and then took a sip. It was very smooth, and she recognized it distantly as some sort of aged Firewhiskey. He cast her a quelling look, with a silent order to _be quiet_ , and took his own seat again, returning to writing.

 

She took a moment to look around the room, eager for a distraction from what had just occurred. The study was large, with a collection of chairs. He probably had friends in here sometimes, and they probably sat and smoked cigars and drank fine spirits as they guffawed about the Muggle-born proletariat, or something. It had a massive fireplace that was obviously Floo-capable, a few sneering portraits of platinum-blonde men with icy eyes, and quite a lot of dark wood and brown leather. All in all, it was very much what she imagined rich men's studies looked like.

 

The bookcase across the room caught her attention, and she squinted at them a bit, trying to read the titles. When that didn't work, she got out of the chair and wandered over to it, not noticing Lucius glancing up to see what she was doing.

 

Some of these books were very old. She reached out and gingerly traced her finger down a faded leather spine, and blinked when the book seemed to groan and shudder at her touch. The books surrounding it made their own noises, all aching to be taken out and opened. It rather reminded her of the Restricted Section. Her finger hovered over the spine of the book, almost giving into the urge to pull it out and look at it, but then she let her hand drop.

 

"That was wise," he commented, from his desk. "Some of those books are very dangerous."

 

"How old are they?"

 

"Older than this Manor. Some pre-date England itself," he said, in an idle, almost bored tone. She couldn't imagine having this kind of wealth of knowledge at her fingertips and not being bloody excited about it. But then, this was Lucius Malfoy, who probably said, _well done_ in a polite voice when he orgasmed.

 

She really needed to stop thinking about Lucius Malfoy having sex with his wife, because it was really starting to turn her stomach. Hermione made a face at herself. _Get it together_.

 

She looked at him, but he was writing, again. "What's in them?"

 

"Malfoy secrets, Hermione," he drawled, dismissively.

 

"You know, I'm about to _be_ a Malfoy," she reminded him, and his quill slowed and then stopped.

 

She hadn't thought it would work, but then he stood, and walked over to her side of the room to join her in looking at the bookcase. He reached out, tugging the spine of the book she'd been touching and pulling it free of the shelf. The book issued a ragged scream of victory, and she saw his hands strain to hold it closed. "These are spells, written in their original runes, an earlier version of what you learned at Hogwarts."

 

Hermione stared at the book, straining to fly open. His fingernail beds were white as he held the cover tautly closed. "Are they dark spells?"

 

"This is before that," he said, seriously. "This is from a time when there was no dark spells or light spells. These are just spells, some of the first ones ever recorded. They're very powerful, and all call upon both dark and light arts simultaneously, without barriers."

 

She looked up at him, forgetting about her Firewhiskey for a moment as it dangled from her fingers. "Have you ever looked in it?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Did you perform one of the spells?"

 

He put the book back, and it _screamed_ in rage as it was slid back in between the other whispering volumes. "I tried."

 

Tried.

 

She couldn't imagine how difficult they must have been, if Lucius Malfoy hadn't been able to succeed at doing _one_. "What happened?"

 

"An event that would have left me with an impressive amount of scarring had I not been taken to St. Mungo's promptly to be attended to," he said. "Those spells are difficult to harness if you predominately call upon dark magic or light magic, because they require a purer tapping of power. Most witches and wizards who live during this time would not be able to succeed."

 

Staring at the book's spine, Hermione felt an itch in her fingers to try. Her logical brain told her she was definitely a light witch and would probably suffer the same pitfall. Her heart demanded she try, just to see if she could do what Lucius Malfoy could not.

 

He put a hand on her shoulder, turning her away from the bookshelf. "Do _not_ attempt those spells," he said, firmly, and ushered her back to her chair.

 

Feeling utterly chastised, she demanded again, "Are you a Legilimens? You _have_ to tell me, if you are."

 

"Actually, I do not. There is no required registry of such a skill," he said, making sure she sat before taking his chair at the desk again. He picked up his quill, and Hermione made a face at his back. He had to be a Legilimens. There was no way he was just that good at guessing what she was thinking. "Your face will get stuck like that," he drawled, amused, even though he still had his back to her.

 

Shocked, she looked around his desk for a reflective surface that he could have used to see her making faces, and didn't find any. "I knew it," she muttered, slouching in her chair.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She only got half an hour more of blessed reprieve – which she spent mostly quietly, lost in her thoughts as Lucius shifted his papers around and wrote. Then an elf popped into view at her arm, and she yelped and jumped a bit in her chair.

 

The elf flinched a little at her reaction. "Sorry, Miss. Dorry is to be taking you to the garden for tea, Miss."

 

"Oh," Hermione breathed. She hadn't missed the insufferably amused expression Lucius had shot her when she startled, and drained the rest of her glass. She was going to need as much of this stuff in her as possible if she was going to survive the next couple of hours with a bunch of wedding-crazy old hens. "Okay, sure."

 

The elf nodded and touched her arm gingerly, and then she was gone. The empty glass she'd been holding was left balanced on the arm of the chair, and slowly began to tip off.

 

Calmly, Lucius stood and walked to the chair, collecting the glass a mere second before it fell and putting it back on the davenport. Then, after a glance around to ensure he was alone, he shut the door to his study and moved over to the ornate mirror on the wall and inspected his face for lines.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was Apparated right into the garden. Elf-apparation was so much smoother than human Apparation. She wondered if humans had devised the spell to copy the elves' natural abilities, but had simply been unable to reach the level of skill elves had naturally. That probably infuriated someone, somewhere.

 

Before her, a long table sat, all but groaning under the tea, sandwiches, and cakes on top of it. Sketches and pictures covered every spare bit of space.

 

"Hermione, there you are," Rose sighed. "Where have you been?"

 

"Oh, I was talking to Lucius," she said. She flushed a bit as she recalled how thoroughly she'd humiliated them both in that study, and murmured, "Sorry. I didn't mean to be gone so long."

 

Narcissa was watching her blush curiously, but she set aside the question to urge her forward so she could look at some sketches of potential bridesmaid dresses.

 

The tea and snacks were left mostly forgotten as Hermione tiredly got through narrowing down the available choices on every little thing – from the dresses to the cravats to the flowers to the food to the table seating. By the time three o'clock came around, she just wanted to lay down on the dirt in the garden and wait for death.

 

The dresses the dressmaker brought were all hand-made, beautiful, and something Hermione was absolutely sure should never get within forty feet of her clumsy body.

 

When she tried on the first one, Rose's eyes had teared up, and by the fourth one, her mum was crying quietly. "Oh, Hermione, you look so beautiful. I can't believe you're already getting _married_." Feeling stiff and embarrassed with all the attention, Hermione nodded a bit and kept her head down, trying to ignore the dressmaker's exasperated remarks about her wide hips or chubby shoulders (she did _not_ have chubby shoulders).

 

She honestly wasn't sure what dress to pick. They were all equally stunning and, she was sure, would have looked much better on Narcissa. So she picked the one that seemed to make her mum cry the hardest, because that seemed like as good a measuring stick as any.

 

Narcissa approved, naturally, and by this point the womens' _constant_ nattering had given her a deadly headache.

 

"Are you alright, luv?" her mum asked her, finally noticing her wan expression. "You look a little peaky. Maybe the sandwiches at tea didn't agree with you?"

 

She smiled, weakly. "I've just got a bit of a headache. Maybe I'm coming down with something."

 

Rose frowned, getting up to feel her daughter's forehead. "Hm. Well, it doesn't seem like you're running a temperature. Maybe you should get home and rest, just in case," she said, worriedly. "Cissa, you don't need her for anything else, do you?"

 

 _Cissa_.

 

Her _mum_ was on a _nickname basis_ with _Narcissa Malfoy_. Just what the hell had happened during this week?

 

As Hermione did her best to try and come to terms with this new, world-shattering information (she hadn't even imagined that anyone called Narcissa by anything as pedestrian or lowly as a nickname), Narcissa got up and grabbed her hands, kissing her on both cheeks as she assured Hermione that the rest could wait until later. The blonde woman's elegant perfume gave Hermione a heady, almost dizzy feeling, and she smiled, ducking out of sight to get out of the dress before she did something stupid like trip into the mud with it.

 

After putting her jeans and shirt back on, she quickly said her goodbyes and Flooed home, utterly exhausted.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

"Good, you're home," Draco said, from her couch. Seeing the expression on her face put a smirk on his. "Looks like someone had a long day."

 

"Shut up or I'll send you over there," she warned. "I've got a blistering headache."

 

He sat up, and gestured at her to sit on the floor between his legs. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he rolled his eyes. "With your _back_ to me. I'm not that much an arsehole. Give me a little credit, here."

 

Hermione dropped onto the floor, leaning back against the couch between his knees, and felt his hands close over her shoulders, rubbing them and kneading his thumbs into the back of her neck. She sighed through her nose, relaxing a bit as he moved his fingers up towards her scalp. "How'd tea go?" she asked, absently.

 

He was quiet for a second, and then said, "Good. I think. It was weird." His voice was soft.

 

"Weird how?" Andromeda Tonks had always struck Hermione as being so effusive and loving, it was hard to feel awkward or out of place in her presence. She was still a beautiful woman, like her sisters, but a long life of love and happiness had formed laugh-lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes. Her booming laugh was the kind that quickly filled the room, seeming to come from someone much bigger than the tall, stately woman with the perpetually immaculate posture.

 

"Seeing her, I guess. I'd never met her," he admitted, thoughtfully. "I knew _of_ her, but nobody had corresponded with her in... well, since before I was born. She was mentioned so sparingly, I'd assumed she was dead until I learned otherwise just a few years ago."

 

"But you had a good time?"

 

His hands slowed a bit. "I did," he said, slowly. "She was very... affectionate. It kind of put me off at first. Her grandson was, too."

 

Hermione smiled at the mention of Teddy. Such a sweet boy. "How'd you find him?"

 

His voice was so soft, she could barely hear it, and it was small – like he was speaking from a great distance. "He's very trusting. Naive. He'd get eaten alive in Slytherin. And he cries easily. His favorite animal is the dragon. He likes to kiss on the lips to say hello and goodbye, even if he's got biscuit crumbs all over his face," he said, his tone turning a bit wry, and Hermione giggled at the idea of Draco swallowing his disgust and giving the crumb-covered boy a peck on the lips.

 

"He said he loved me," Draco said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur, again. "And that he hoped I came back soon to play."

 

She felt her heart twinge a bit at the sound of his voice when he said that. She wondered what it was about his interaction with Teddy that had so clearly touched him. "You sound a little sad," she prodded, curious.

 

"I think it made me realize how... how excited I am to be a father," he said.

 

She felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on her. Stiffening up a bit, she said, with forced nonchalance, "Oh."

 

"I know you don't want them, yet," he said, softly. "I can wait."

 

Hermione tilted her head to look up at him, and he lowered his gaze, probably aware of how raw his expression looked. She realized that a child's love was probably the purest kind there was – always present, always unconditional. She wondered how starved for it Draco had to be that he was so desperate to have a kid when he'd just turned twenty-four. "You're still really young, Draco. You have a lot of living you could do before having a child," she said.

 

"I know," he said, but it sounded more dismissive than in agreement, like he was just trying to desperately close the conversation.

 

She turned around between his knees, looking up at him. "You're going to be a great father, Draco, but you'll be an even better one with a few more years of life experience under your belt. All parents are better, then. Besides, did you see James and Albus? Not all kids are sweethearts, like Teddy. You could have one like _James_."

 

His nose wrinkled in instant rejection of the idea, and she laughed, getting up to join him on the couch. They shifted and fidgeted around until they were lying side-by-side, facing each other with their noses barely an inch apart. His knee was between her legs, and her leg was thrown over the top of it, and she felt his hand running up and down the length of her thigh with what was almost a sense of familiarity. For the moment, they just laid there, quietly, content to just be in each other's company.

 

His eyes searched hers – she didn't know what he was looking for – and she returned his gaze with a slight, amused smile. She felt herself grow drowsy, though, and soon her blinks were getting longer and longer, and then she was asleep, tangled up in his limbs.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she woke – she wasn't sure how long it had been – she did so gently, her eyes still closed as she felt her consciousness start swimming upwards to reality. She felt something tickling her thigh and her side, and realized it was a finger, slowly tracing the contours of her body.

 

As her eyes opened, she saw that he was looking at his hand. Rather, more specifically, he was looking at the places where his hand moved, his gaze laser-focused, like he was memorizing every inch of her.

 

She shifted a bit, and his eyes flicked up to hers in surprise, and she saw embarrassment and guilt flash through them as he quickly stilled his hand and left it at her waist.

 

"What were you doing?" she asked, sleepily.

 

"Nothing," he said, quickly, and she watched as his cheeks grew faintly pink, his eyes avoiding hers.

 

"Weirdo," she sighed, contentedly, wriggling forward to press her face into his chest. His hand slid up her back and his fingers began running through her lightly-tangled curls. The soft touches made her drowsy again, and she hummed happily in her throat as she let her eyes close.

 

It was some while later before he finally roused her, explaining that he'd had to go to the bathroom for over an hour and he was going to rupture. She'd sat up, stretching, happy to note that her headache had disappeared. He all but ran for the bathroom, and she laughed softly to herself, wondering why he'd wait so bloody long instead of just waking her up earlier.

 

He came back out with a sigh of relief. "You know, it's pretty late," he said, glancing at the Floo. But he didn't make a move towards it.

 

"What time is it?"

 

"Half eleven."

 

"Merlin," she sighed, stretching again. "I should set my alarm before I forget." She stood from the couch, and watched him fidget a bit, his hands in his pockets. She wasn't feeling particularly sexy at the moment, so she wasn't sure what she should do when he was so obviously waiting to see if she'd kick him out, or not. She didn't want to give him the wrong idea, or give off the impression that they were going to _do_ anything.

 

Then again, when she looked at his face, Hermione realized that he didn't look particularly horny, himself. He just looked painfully shy.

 

She started towards her bedroom, walking past him where he stood, frozen, in the living room.

 

She made it halfway down the hall before she stopped, turning around. A second ago, her intent had been to just let him make the decision, but she felt a flicker of guilt, knowing that he'd just leave. But that was also sort of what she wanted him to do. It wasn't that she didn't _like_ him, but sleeping with other people was never as comfortable as sleeping alone. And she knew that if she didn't say something, she was just being a coward.

 

Hermione snuck a glance at the living room. He was right where she'd left him, his shoulders sloping down a bit in defeat. He looked so utterly lost, and she cursed silently to herself. She wouldn't be able to leave the night like this. The guilt would eat her alive. "Well?" she asked, squinting at him sleepily.

 

He looked at her, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

 

When he just stood there, she huffed, "Are you coming, or not?"

 

The question came out annoyed, almost painfully so, but the frown dropped from his face immediately at his expression lit up a bit. It almost hurt to watch him get so happy over such a small concession (one she didn't even want to make, really), and she realized at that moment – with him all but jogging to catch up to her, his eyes lit up with hope – that she was in very big trouble.

 

That thought gnawed on her as she led him into her bedroom, both of them getting down to their underthings – and her into a camisole – before crawling into bed. It gnawed on her as she curled up on her side, only to be joined seconds later by him crowding her against the edge of the bed, his arm wrapped around her. It continued to gnaw at her as he shifted to get comfortable, and she felt him breathe a sigh of relief against her shoulderblades.

 

Because she realized, at that moment, that she was steadily falling into the very same trap Harry had warned her about just days prior.

 

Damn it.

 


	26. Moratorium

  
**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Moratorium**

…

She did not sleep well.

 

She woke up about twelve times because she was too warm from Draco pressing into her. She couldn't roll around or change position because he basically had her pinned to the edge of the bed.

 

And the worst part was, she didn't know how to begin to bring this up without making him start shutting down and getting all pissy about it. She'd had the talk with Ron, early on into the sleeping-over business, but Ron hadn't been much of a rampant snuggler so it hadn't been as big of a deal. Ron's problem was just that he had no decent concept of his _side_ of the bed and always ended up all over hers as well.

 

Ron had taken it well enough, shrugging and saying he'd try to stay on his side (although he suggested just getting a bigger bed so encroaching on her space became harder to do), but he slept over only once or twice a week.

 

It hadn't been a big issue.

 

So when she woke up and went to the bathroom, she decided not to say anything. It was just two nights he'd slept over, anyway. It wasn't a pattern yet, so there was no reason to freak out.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

"I am starting to freak out," she told Harry over lunch. It was Thursday, and she knew she looked awful – she'd been increasingly tired and cranky as the week wore on.

 

Harry squinted at her as he grabbed the salt, dumping quite a bit on his chicken. "Are you sleeping? You look terrible. Oh, no," he said, immediately, and a second later winced when Hermione turned a glare on him. "I knew that was the wrong thing to say, and I said it, anyway," he murmured, as if to himself. "Why did I do that?"

 

" _Thank you_ , Harry. Your kind words are _so uplifting_." Her voice had an acidic bite to it and Harry made a face at her.

 

"Hey, I'm not the enemy, here. Your lack of sleep is the enemy. Go make scowl-y faces at the Sleep-Stealing Goblin or something," he defended. "What's wrong, anyway? Are you thinking about your werewolf project again? I told you, you can't take that stuff _home_ with you-"

 

"No," she said, shortly, cutting him off. "It's nothing work related. It's Draco."

 

Harry was instantly on guard, stiffening, his eyes going hard. "What did he do?" he asked, jaw clenching a bit.

 

"It's not- he didn't do anything," she sighed.

 

"So, then, what is it?"

 

Hermione stared at her chicken. She had no desire to eat it. "He has slept over at my flat every night since Saturday," she said, quietly.

 

He slowly speared a piece of broccoli on his fork, well aware of how much Hermione liked her personal space, especially when she was sleeping. One time, during their seventh year when they were hunting the horcruxes, he'd fallen asleep in her bed in the tent once (they'd been talking, trying to be quiet so as not to wake Ron), and the next thing he knew, she was elbowing him viciously awake and telling him to go make _his own_ bed 'an unbearable temperature.'

 

Chewing, he said, "So tell him to go home."

 

She glared at him. "Wow, is that all it takes? Thank you you for your _insight_. If it was _that_ easy, I'd have been rid of him days ago. And I think he stays there when I'm at work. I always see my things moved around."

 

His eyebrows lifted incredulously. Since when had Hermione ever had a problem being forthright and blunt about these types of things? "So, what, you asked him to leave and he wouldn't go?"

 

Her eyes closed, and she rubbed her face with her hands, trying to wipe away some of her exhaustion. "I start to hint at it, but he just looks- I don't know. He just gives me this miserable little look and I can't go through with saying it."

 

Harry barked a laugh. "So he's manipulating you, and you're letting him. Jolly good show, Hermione."

 

"What?" she asked, taken aback. "He's not- I don't think he's doing it on purpose."

 

"Really? He just _happens_ to look like a kicked puppy the very _second_ you try and tell him to get out of your house? Every time, without fail. Well, you may be right, but that's one hell of a coincidence."

 

She slowly stiffened, her eyes widening slightly as Harry's words really sank in. She'd been so tired and annoyed that it hadn't even occurred to her to examine his behavior for some sort of underlying reason or motive. She was so used to Ron, who was about as deep as a wet pavement, that she'd forgotten that she was dealing with _Malfoy_. "Why would he want to do that?" she asked, carefully, almost afraid of the answer.

 

Harry shrugged, about to brush it off, and then gave her a good look and winced, sighing. "I don't know him that well, Hermione, but if this were a case and I was asked to psychologically profile him... well, I'd say that he's using you. Didn't you say he's afraid of being alone?"

 

"But his parents are in the Manor, he's not alone there."

 

"Right, but do they fall asleep with him and eat every meal with him? Plus I assume there's the small matter of the regular orgasming that I am _very sure_ his parents do not partake in."

 

"Oh! Ugh," she said, pushing her chicken away with a sense of finality. She was _not_ going to eat, today. "How could you _say that_ to me? While I'm trying to _eat_ , no less."

 

He was chortling, well satisfied with himself. His appetite didn't seem affected at all. "Look, Hermione, you're just going to have to blaze through the puppy-dog looks and tell him he needs to get out. He must be expecting it. I mean, how could he not know what he's doing? I think he's just relying on you to never have the mean streak to tell him to shove off."

 

She ran her hand through her hair, sobering a bit. "I really hope you're wrong, Harry," she finally said, shaking her head.

 

"For the record, me too."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After work, she almost Flooed directly home, but then stopped at the fireplace. For a minute, she just stared into it, thinking. Finally, after enduring an annoyed, impatient jab from the witch behind her, she put the powder back and turned to walk out of the Ministry's front door.

 

Half an hour later, she was meeting Susan outside of her work at the Quidditch shop. The woman was just getting off work.

 

When she came out, she smiled brightly at Hermione. "Hi! You know, I was surprised to get your owl," she said, approaching the curly-haired witch with a bit of a bounce to her step. Surprised or not, she looked positively excited to have been called upon to hang out - especially without any of the others.

 

"Sorry it's so last minute, I just... didn't feel like going home." She didn't really want to get into the dirty details just yet. "You didn't have any plans with Ron tonight?"

 

The woman shook her head, shrugging a bit. "No, he's closing at the shop. I thought I'd pop in to say hello on my way home, but that can wait until later. What exactly did you want to do? Coffee?" She glanced at Hermione's face, slowly realizing that the poor woman looked a little peaky. "Dinner?"

 

Hermione nodded. As bad as it sounded, she was just relieved to be having dinner with anyone that wasn't Draco. "Dinner sounds lovely. I'm absolutely famished."

 

After all, Harry had ensured she didn't enjoy lunch. Prat.

 

Another half hour later, they were at the Leaky Cauldron, for lack of a better idea. They chatted lightly as they waited for their food, mostly about their respective jobs (and Hermione rather thought they both found the other's to be horrifically boring, although neither of them were impolite enough to let that show). Susan working in a Quidditch shop was probably one of Ron's oldest fantasies. She bet he was already taking advantage of the employee discount.

 

"Of course, he wasn't going to get that kind of pure speed with a Firebolt, but there's no arguing with someone when they know what they want," Susan was saying. Then, she stopped, and flushed a bit. "Sorry. Look at me, prattling on. Ron said you don't even like Quidditch."

 

"I don't _mind_ it," Hermione said, carefully. "But it definitely is not one of my passions."

 

Susan smiled down at her corned beef sandwich, a little wry. "Now I feel bad for subjecting you to my stories. You must think I'm rather dull."

 

Hermione laughed. "No! I mean, no more than I'm sure you think I'm dull when I go on about troll treaties. And clearly I have no problem talking about that until I'm blue in the face, _regardless_ of my audience." She chuckled again, poking at her fish and chips. "I know it drives people absolutely mad to listen to me whinge on and on, but I can never seem to make myself stop when I'm already heated up."

 

The other girl laughed, quietly. "I think it's good for you to be like that about those particular issues, though. Sometimes people don't want to listen because they find it annoying or don't want to think about it... or maybe they don't want to feel bad about themselves because they don't care. I think it's a good thing that you won't let them ignore it. Especially when they almost actively try _not_ to listen." There was a faint sheen of admiration in her eyes, and Hermione blinked, a little surprised.

 

"... Thank you," she finally said, huffing a soft laugh. "You know, I feel like that, too, but if _I_ say it out loud, then suddenly I'm a nag. You have a real gift for talking to people. You're... calming."

 

Susan grinned at the compliment. "Thanks. It's really nice to have some one-on-one time with you, you know," she said, looking a little shy. "I really like you guys, but it's a little intimidating hanging out with all of you at once." At Hermione's confused frown, she explained, hastily, "Not because of the war or anything... it's just that... you know. There's so much history between all of you. And there I am, Ron's girlfriend, not having any of that history."

 

Hemione swallowed, suddenly feeling a little _bad_ for Susan. She'd noticed Susan looking awkward from time to time, especially when anyone was being particularly emotional, but she'd never really thought about the fact that her group of friends could be, well... rather insulated.

 

It made sense, though. Although they still chatted with old school friends and occasionally got together, the four of them spent far more time with each other than with anyone else.

 

And it wasn't just inside jokes, either. There were also the various pains they'd inflicted on each other, the times they'd comforted each other when hurt, and the times they'd endured what seemed insurmountable together. The little scars, psychological and otherwise, added up. Then there was the little things, like how Harry's laugh got a little squeaky when he was _uncontrollably_ amused as opposed to just somewhat amused. Or how Ginny got this frozen, nose-wrinkling look on her face whenever she saw or heard something she hated, but knew she couldn't openly talk about because it was rude. Or the way Ron would notice if someone was deep in thought and stare at them, waiting for them to come out of it and notice his gaze on them, and when they'd look up, he'd make a face like a gargoyle and stun them into laughing.

 

She supposed it _was_ intimidating. It had to be.

 

And it explained her quiet nature a little, too. Maybe she was a larger personality when she wasn't being subjected to the four of them being... well, the four of them. Maybe Susan Bones wasn't even a _quiet girl_ at all.

 

"Well, sure, we have history, but... we're also making new history, all the time. And you're apart of it, now, you know," she pointed out. "I think it's normal to kind of feel out where you sit in relation to everyone else. No one's expecting you to just fit in like you'd always been there. It takes a little time."

 

Susan's wry smile spread, a little self-deprecating. "Thanks."

 

"And we all really like you, you know," Hermione added. "You can be really funny when you're not being quiet. And you keep Ron from flying off the handle, which is something I don't think anyone's ever been able to do with one-hundred-percent success, yet. Of course, your track record is sublime, but rather short, so I'll have to wait and see if you can manage to do over the next year what no one else could."

 

"Not even you?"

 

"Good _God_ , no," she exclaimed, throwing her head back and laughing. The very idea of her being able to, in any way, dampen Ron's tendency to go into angry little rampages was just about the funniest thing she'd ever heard. She'd have to tell Harry about that. Let him get a good laugh. "Oh, no. The more I tried to calm him down, the worse he'd always get. If he was just a little mad about something stupid, I'd always end up saying something like _Oh, get over it, Ron_ , and then he'd be furious and we'd start yelling at each other."

 

Susan opened her mouth, and closed it, not sure if she should say what was on her mind.

 

Hermione said it for her. "Yes. We were not that good together. I can't believe it took four years and then _Ron telling me_ for me to figure it out," she said, laughing softly.

 

"Why do you think it didn't work?" The question was tentative, as though Susan were afraid that she were overstepping her boundaries. And maybe she was, a little bit, but Hermione realized she didn't really mind talking about it with her. Susan was ridiculously easy to talk to.

 

Hermione chewed her lip as she thought, exhaling roughly. "A lot of reasons, I guess. I mean, we fell in love as teenagers. We weren't fully grown, we didn't really know what we wanted out of life. I don't think we ever did want precisely the same thing – he wanted the house, the family. And while I'm not averse to those things, it's not something I'd want to do for a while, yet." She picked at her chips. "And, you know, towards the end it just felt... a little mechanical, I suppose. Like we were best friends, obviously, but we'd kiss because we knew we should, not because we desperately wanted to. It was almost like we were going through the motions because we knew that was what happy couples did."

 

Susan was nodding, looking thoughtful. "So you don't think you would have been happy?"

 

"No, I do," Hermione said, promptly. "I think we could have been content with each other perfectly well, but... I mean, it was almost _assured_ that we would find someone better for ourselves if we weren't together. Someone who challenged us the right ways, or made us excited or hopeful or- basically the way Ginny and Harry feel when they're together. I think Ron and I could have been _fine_ , but he was right. Fine shouldn't be good enough, and neither of us should have felt like we had to content ourselves with it."

 

Susan was smiling, a hint of relief to her face. Hermione watched her, dropping into her own thoughts a bit. She wondered if Susan had ever worried that the only reason Ron and Hermione weren't together were because of the Marriage Law. She imagined all the little things she and Ron would do when out as a group - the familiar little touching of each other, the occasional shared glances over secret inside jokes - and did her best not to grimace. It probably hadn't looked too reassuring.

 

Softly, she said, "You know, you really make him happy. I don't think either of you will end up wanting to divorce when it's all said and done. And I'm really glad I got the chance to get to know you better, as a friend."

 

Susan's brown eyes blinked up at hers, startled. Then they softened. "Thank you," she whispered.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

By the time she got home, she'd almost forgotten about Draco. She stepped in through the front door, and he got up from the couch, frowning. "Where have you been?" he asked, looking irritated. "I'm starving."

 

"Well, you might want to grab something to eat. I met Susan for dinner at the Leaky," she said, with forced nonchalance. After all, it was perfectly normal for her to meet with her friends. Stubbornly, Hermione realized that she didn't _have_ to let Draco know about everything she was doing, even if a tiny little part of her whispered that it was still a little mean to act out of accordance with what he'd been expecting.

 

"Why didn't you invite me? Or tell me?"

 

She cast him a wary glare. "I didn't realize I had to apprise you of all my doings, Draco."

 

He froze a bit where he was, casting her an uncertain, almost stony look. "Well, you knew I'd be waiting here."

 

"Why _are_ you? You have friends, and presumably a social life," she said, putting her hand on her hip. "Why don't you ever go see them? Or your parents, for that matter. When was the last time you were home?"

 

"I went home today to change," he said, defensively.

 

"Like every day."

 

"So?" he demanded. "What is this? What are you doing?"

 

She steeled her spine, trying to force herself to calm down. "I feel like you've moved in, here," she said, slowly. She had to force herself to talk slow, because if she went too fast, she would say something she'd later wished she hadn't. "And I think that's a little rude, since we never discussed that."

 

Draco looked a little shocked, like a deer caught in headlights. But there was a sort of coyness to his expression, beneath the shock, and she grit her teeth together when she saw it. So he'd known that this conversation would happen eventually. _He knew precisely what he was doing_. She tried to keep her hackles from rising as fury permeated her every waking thought. She had to stay calm. "How have I moved in?" he scoffed, looking around. "I don't see my furniture, or my clothes."

 

Hermione folded her arms.

 

"Is it the sex? I don't care if we don't do it," he said. "If you don't feel like it, that's fine."

 

"I know it's fine," she said, sharply. "I don't need _your permission_ for me to not feel like it, Draco, believe me." And, truth be told, while she thought they'd be shagging regularly during the six nights he'd spent at her place, they'd only done it twice more the entire week. She hadn't felt bad about it, and he'd never pushed, always letting her be the one to initiate things beyond normal kissing.

 

"I know you don't," he snapped, his tone a little condescending. "That was me trying to demonstrate how understanding I am, get it?"

 

"Oh, really?" she huffed, incredulous. "So you're quite understanding, are you? You know precisely where I'm coming from? Know my emotional state? But you haven't yet figured out that I don't _want you here every second of the day_."

 

It came out harsher than she intended, and as soon as it was out, she inhaled sharply – almost as if she could suck it back if she did it right.

 

He was staring at her like he'd been slapped.

 

"Draco," she tried, slowly, keeping her voice calm, but he was already shaking his head.

 

"Alright," he said, lips thinning as he looked away from her. "All you had to do was say so, you know. I'm not a bloody mind-reader, am I? Just a person who was unfortunate enough to want to spend time with you."

 

"Don't do that," she bit out. "Don't victimize yourself, like you have the emotional maturity of a _child_ and I've somehow abused your mental fragility. Just don't."

 

He glared at her, and for a second she felt a chill go up her spine. The look in his eyes reminded her of how he'd looked in school: Angry and almost _hateful_. It didn't look like the Draco she'd come to know over the past few months. When he spoke again, his voice was unmistakably frosty, and his expression was a blank mask. "You realize that we're going to be married in just about a month. Living together is a foregone conclusion."

 

Hermione stared at him. A small part of her was desperately screaming at herself to stop, and not say any more. But looking at his chilling expression, she found that it wasn't guilt or regret or even anxiety that she was feeling. No, she was _angry_. Angry at his presumption. Angry that he'd just wedged himself into her life without sparing a thought as to whether or not she wanted that as much as he did. She found herself grinding her teeth, and heard her mother's phantom voice in her mind warning her that she'd grind them down into useless nubs. "No, it isn't. I never once planned to live with you just because of this sham marriage. I'm still going to live here, by myself, until I bloody well choose otherwise. You can live at the Manor or somewhere else, I don't really care. But you're not living here and I'm not _leaving_ here."

 

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he regarded her, and he leaned down and picked up his robe, slinging it over his arm. "Good to finally know where you stand, then," he said, coldly. "You might have saved me the trouble of guessing."

 

He walked to the Floo, and a moment later he was gone.

 

She stared at the spot where he'd been standing before he left, reflecting on and numbering all the ways that conversation could have gone a lot better. She made it to 27 of them before she stopped trying to come up with more. Tired and still simmering with residual anger, Hermione rubbed her face, looked around her empty flat, and yelled, " _Fuck!_ "

 

Crookshanks bolted up from where he'd been snuggled on the recliner and, in an orange blur, was in her bedroom with an irritated hiss.

 

She slowly stepped back until her back hit the wall, and tilted her head back until it followed suit with a dull and hollow-sounding _thump_. Then she whispered, "Fuck."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Presumably, this was all Harry's fault, and she told him so over lunch the next day.

 

He promptly scoffed, putting his tray on the table and sliding into his seat. " _My_ fault? I didn't let the Ferret make a cozy little ferret nest in my house. Nor did I go home and start yelling at him with pretty much no preamble." Picking up his straw, he tore one end of the paper off, careful to keep the other end intact as he pulled it carefully halfway down the tube.

 

" _There was preamble_ ," she defended, hackles rising. "Five infuriating _days_ of preamble. And if you blow that straw wrapper at me, I am going to hex your testicles into your own mouth," she promised, lowly. He'd just been about to put the stray to his mouth, and quickly changed his mind, pulling the wrapper off normally and shoving it in his glass.

 

" _Alright_ , tetchy. Your relationship with him is _really_ explosive, Hermione. I think it might be worse than Ron," Harry muttered. "It seems like once a month you're at each other's throats over something or another. You'll have to be in marriage counseling pretty much immediately after the ceremony is over, before you kill each other."

 

"You're one to talk. I seem to remember you and Ginny sniping at each other quite a bit when you two started up," she reminded him.

 

"That's because she was being unreasonable," he assured her, in an even tone.

 

"And how'd you fix it, then?"

 

"By pretending like I was the one being unreasonable," he said, in the same exact tone.

 

She snorted. "You're so full of it. What'd you really do?" she demanded. "Help me, you're my friend."

 

He made a face, rolling his eyes. "Am I supposed to take that to mean that you want to make up with him? _Already_? You were barely even mad for five straight minutes."

 

"I'm _still_ mad," she disagreed. "But I decided from the get-go that I was going to be an adult about this, and while I think it would _feel_ pretty good to just avoid him for the next _month_ , that's not exactly the most mature path forward, is it?"

 

Harry shook his head a bit. "So you still like him?"

 

She huffed a bit. It was so like a boy to think that four minutes of fighting meant that everything was over. Ron used to think that way, too, during their first ten to twenty arguments; he'd always assume after that they were breaking up, and then she'd had to explain that _no_ , they were not breaking up, and usually by that point they were done being huffy and made up properly. "Of course I do, don't be an idiot. He overstayed his welcome and he _lied to me_ ," she said, gritting her teeth a bit. "And I don't like that. Although I don't think he counts manipulating my emotions as lying."

 

"And yet you still like him. Your taste is really starting to come into question."

 

"I'm riddled with faults, and _you_ like _me_ ," she reminded him, smugly. He rolled his eyes again, and she sighed. "Yes, I like him. He's funny, and he can be charming when he wants to be, and he's clever and smart. I even usually like him when he's being a little brat. It was never a matter of _whether or not_ I liked Draco. I _like_ being with him. Just not when he's _suffocating_ me."

 

"You know, I really shouldn't help you. I should let you have to figure this out on your own, _miserable_ , just like I had to do with Ginny."

 

"But you won't, which we already know, so, out with it."

 

Harry smiled a bit as he recalled, his gaze going distant for a bit before it turned back to her. He sipped his drink nonchalantly. "Actually, no. It turns out it's pretty embarrassing, so I'm _not_ going to tell you. No," he said, when she started to protest. "You're going to sit there eating your wilted salad and make fun of me, and I won't stand for it."

 

"It can't be worse than eating Ron's vomit."

 

He froze, and then lifted his hand and threw his fork on the tray with a booming clatter that echoed around the entire cafeteria. "How _dare you_."

 

"Consider it revenge for yesterday," she said, grinning wickedly.

 

As she speared a piece of lettuce on her fork, he leaned back, crossing his arms. "You think the Malfoys still go down on each other?" he asked, thoughtfully, stifling a grin as Hermione gagged impressively and put her fork down. "I wonder if it gets awkward, at that age. Things start sagging, you know."

 

"Stop!" she gasped, gagging again.

 

"They get a little... floppy," he continued, eyes narrowing a bit. He held his hands up, letting them go floppy, and wiggled them around. He didn't relent until she shoved her tray away from herself, and then contented himself with grinning.

 

When she finally got control of her gag reflex, she croaked, "You are a _bastard_."

 

"Never try and beat me at my own game, Hermione. I am a _master_ of disgust."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She didn't try and owl Draco immediately. And this time, it truly was _not_ because she was worried about the confrontation. No, for the first time since this whole sordid engagement thing began, she felt _very_ prepared for a confrontation with Draco.

 

It was just that she wanted to give herself some time to be alone, and cool off. And honestly, she thought Draco could use the time off, too. She declined Narcissa's invitations to the Manor to go over even more wedding details ( _puke_ ), explaining that she just wasn't feeling up to socializing. At first, she wasn't sure if she should be so brutally honest, but all of her polite responses so far had ended up getting circumvented by the woman's sly pushiness. Maybe being straightforward would prove otherwise.

 

It was worth a shot.

 

To prove to the woman that she wasn't trying to avoid her, Hermione even offered to come by the next weekend, which Narcissa graciously accepted.

 

Then, although it _bothered her immensely_ to be the first one to give in to the frigid silence between herself and Draco, she forced herself to sit down and write him an owl, as well.

 

_Draco,_

_I shouldn't have said things the way I said them, and for that, I'm sorry. But even though I was kind of a bint about it, that is how I really feel. I'm not ready to have you living at my flat and being with me twenty four hours a day. We're not there, yet, and I think if we try and rush that kind of intimacy, we'll just end up hexing each other blind._

_I'm going to go away for the weekend to clear my head a bit, and I think you should do that, also. Hang out with Blaise and Pansy. I haven't given up._

_I'll be at the coffee shop Monday morning like usual. I hope you're there, too._

_Hermione_

 

That Friday night, she begged Ginny to leave Harry with the boys, and owled Susan, as well. The plan was simple: Saturday morning, they'd all go out to a spa-resort just outside of London and have themselves a nice, relaxing, _boy-free_ weekend.

 

Getting Ginny the okay to go took a _lot_ of favors (mostly because Harry did _not_ fancy having to watch his sons all by himself _all weekend,_ even after Hermione and Ginny reminded him that his wife did that almost every day when she didn't have training or a game), but he'd finally given in when Hermione promised that she would owe them twenty _separate_ baby-sitting nights, for them to use at their leisure.

 

Susan was much easier. All it took on her end was trading a shift, and then her weekend was miraculously free.

 

Hermione decided to borrow her Dad's car for the trip, not wanting to try and Apparate to a place she'd never been before. It was only two hours' drive, anyway. Ginny claimed shotgun promptly and put her _bare feet_ up on the dashboard (disregarding Hermione's protests that it was 'disgusting' and 'completely unsanitary' and 'bordering upon the actions of a woman who may be psychotically inclined') the entire drive. Susan lounged in the seat behind her, content to read a magazine and ignore the snippy arguments of the girls up front.

 

When they pulled up to the place, Ginny leaned forward and said, "Wow, is that it? It looks like a hunting lodge."

 

"It looks about as expensive as I assume it is," Susan commented, squinting out her window at the place. "No building with single-pane windows _that_ large is a cheap place to get into. Hermione, are you sure you're okay paying for all this?"

 

"It's my weekend," Hermione said, firmly. "And your gift to me is your presence."

 

"No arguments, here," Ginny said, shooting her a grin and opening her door to slide out of the car. She moved towards the trunk and began unloading their overnight bags. "Hermione, why does it look like you've packed for _four days_?"

 

"I didn't know what the weather would be like!"

 

"Oh, my God," Ginny muttered, rolling her eyes and handing Susan her bag. "It's not like we're going on nature hikes, who cares what the weather's like?"

 

Hermione locked the car and snatched her bag away. "I don't sit around and criticize _your_ packing."

 

"That's understandable, since you'd look like an _idiot_ doing so, on account of me having the _normal_ one change of clothes and a swimsuit for our _two day weekend_ ," Ginny said, slowly. "But fine, have an entire closet of clothes, if that makes you feel better."

 

Ginny beamed in the face of Hermione's glare, closing the trunk and leading the way to the reception desk.


	27. Discoveries

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Discoveries**

…

She was neck-deep in a mud bath, cucumbers over her eyes. The mud felt – well, okay. Alright, it felt weird. She could readily admit that to herself. She wasn't entirely sure what mud baths were _supposed_ to do, but Ginny had _insisted_ and now they were all blinded by vegetables and buried in slightly-too-hot pig slop.

 

Hermione had _never known_ that mud baths were heated. They didn't look hot on the telly. But they were, and now she felt like she was sweating to death. Surely it wasn't good for her skin to get her pores clogged with ash and ground up seaweed and whatever other nonsense they put in here?

 

"And knowing Harry," Ginny was saying, to Susan. Hermione couldn't recall what the question had been. "He's probably just giving them sweets in hopes they'll behave. That's what he always does when I'm not around." Hermione could only see the white-green of the cucumber when she opened her eyes, but she could _hear_ how smug Ginny looked. "He doesn't know I know. Kids tell their mum _everything_."

 

Susan chuckled. "Why would he give them sugar if he wants them to stay calm?"

 

Actually, Hermione wanted to say, sugar consumption was never conclusively linked with hyperactivity in small children. The rush of energy provided by simple carbohydrates was the same regardless of the consumer's age.

 

But Ginny had told her that if she corrected anyone _one more time_ , she was going to smother her, probably in her sleep. But maybe in the mud.

 

"Because he's an idiot," Ginny said, laughing quietly. Fondly. "He always has been, really. But he's a sweet idiot. You wouldn't imagine it, looking at him, but he's done some really stupid stuff in the name of romance."

 

"Like what?" Susan asked, eagerly.

 

"Well," Ginny drawled. "This one time, when my period was late – I wasn't pregnant – I was freaking out a little, sure I'd gotten knocked up. I'd just joined the Harpies at the age of eighteen and I was terrified I'd have to give up my chance playing professionally. Anyway. I don't know _where_ he got it, but he came home with this little stuffed _uterus_. Like, it was a stuffed animal, but a uterus. And it had this stupid little smile on its face..."

 

She started to giggle. "And he puts it up in front of his face and goes, in this _awful_ high pitched voice, _Golly Ginny, I heard you're missing my monthly violent purging! Well, there's an off chance I'm growing a wee little human parasite in me, but there's an equally good chance I'm not. Us uteruses are pretty weird and we do all sorts of wacky stuff, because we're assholes! Come on, give me a punch!_ "

 

Susan was laughing as the story finished, and even Hermione was snorting a bit, smiling.

 

"Anyway, I punched the uterus."

 

"You actually punched it?!"

 

"Of course I did. It really pissed me off," Ginny huffed. "Three days later, I got my period, and he charmed the damn thing to float around the house after me squealing _yaaaaay we did it!_ "

 

"You know it's true love when he'll talk about what's going on downstairs," Susan said, in a sage tone. "Ron still calls mine a 'you-know' and points vaguely downwards."

 

Hermione made an affronted noise. "He does not. Still?" she demanded.

 

"Still," Susan said, with a sigh. "It's like the new Dark Lord to him. Poor guy."

 

"The Great Lord Vag-e-mort," Ginny declared.

 

Hermione choked on nothing, and burst out into barking, uncontrollable laughter. Then she chuckled, "Oh, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, for fear that invoking her might result in a thorough knowledge of the female reproductive system and the complete eradication of penis-borns everywhere."

 

"Well, everyone knows penis-borns are second-class citizens," Susan said, amidst a flurry of giggles.

 

"Of course," Ginny agreed, still chortling.

 

After they'd calmed, Hermione shifted in the mud. "Hey, Gin," she said, suddenly. "Do you remember when you and Harry first started dating, and you fought all the time?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"How did you end up making up before _breaking_ up?"

 

"Oh." Ginny hesitated, and laughed a little, softly. "Well, that's quite the story."

 

"Tell me."

 

Susan chimed in, "You have to tell us. We're all in mud. This is a mud-pact, all secrets must be shared."

 

Hermione waited, chewing her lower lip, and finally heard Ginny sigh a bit in resignation. But also a little bit with glee. Clearly she found the story to be as hilarious as Harry said it was. "Well, if you're invoking the sacred _mud-pact_..."

 

Susan squealed a bit, and her mud sloshed. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready. Go."

 

"Alright... well, let me set the scene.

 

"We'd just started dating. Hermione, sorry, you know all this already. But Susan, let me tell you before I start that I was in love with him, and I had been, for years. Even while he was gazing adoringly at Cho Chang back at Hogwarts. Finally, he seems to start being interested in me, and I couldn't be more chuffed.

 

"Until he, Hermione, and Ron just _leave_ for months on end to hunt Horcruxes. And I was absolutely devastated. I would have gone with him, you know, but he insisted he didn't want me to get hurt. Although obviously he didn't give a rat's arse about _Hermione_."

 

"Thanks, Gin."

 

"Love you, Hermione. Anyway. So then he comes back, after all this time, after that awful year when Snape was in charge... and what does he do? Does he lean me back and give me a swoon-worthy kiss? Does he grab me in his arms and declare he shan't ever let me go? No. No, of course, not, because this is Harry Potter we're talking about, and Harry Potter doesn't half-ass anything. He's all about ending the war. And he's _so_ about ending the war that he goes off into the woods and gets himself Avada Kedavra'd, because, you know, obviously _there's nothing waiting for him back at the castle, or anything_."

 

She stuck her tongue out, and Hermione heard her make a raspberry noise. "Anyway, after it's all said and done, I'm more than a little irritated, and he spent six straight months asking me out while I ignored him."

 

Susan whistled, lowly. "That's a bit of a grudge."

 

"Yes, so don't get on my bad side," Ginny warned her. "Anyway, I finally consented and we started dating, but it was awful. I was still quite mad at him, and he was all wrapped up in these post-war-rehabilitation efforts. Which, looking back, I'm glad he was doing that, because obviously that was a good thing for him to do, but at the time I felt like he'd just asked me out to ignore me some more. We fought all the time. Then, six months into our relationship, he tells me that he loves me during one of our arguments."

 

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and her cucumbers almost fell off her face. She tilted her head back to keep them in place, cursing silently to herself.

 

"And I said to him, _Harry, you wouldn't know love if it went elbows deep up your arse, you unromantic sod._ "

 

She tried not to laugh, but it broke free, a little burble. "Sorry."

 

Ginny laughed, too. "It's okay. It's a lot funnier looking back. Anyway. When he'd been trying to ask me out all those months I was rejecting him, I fancied myself funny and told him that I only dated rock stars. So, after I told him all that, he didn't say a word. Not for weeks, actually. We met and dated like normal. Then, he shows up at the Burrow with a guitar."

 

" _No_ ," Hermione gasped. Harry had never _once_ mentioned learning to play, and she'd never even seen a guitar in his house. _Anywhere_ in his house.

 

"Yes," Ginny affirmed.

 

Susan made an _awww_ ing noise of appreciation. "He learned?"

 

"Just the one song," Ginny said, laughing. "And he stood outside my bedroom window." Susan was making gentle whining noises in her throat, like she'd just been confronted with a room full of fat, wriggling puppies and couldn't contain herself at how cute they were. "And he sang a song called _This Guy's In Love With You_. I guess it was a big hit with Muggles a few decades back."

 

"Oh," Hermione breathed. "That's such a romantic song."

 

"Did Harry have a good voice?" Susan wondered.

 

"No," Ginny said, promptly, and they all laughed again. When she sobered, she was quiet, and clearly warmed by the memory. "But I didn't care."

 

Hermione shifted. This mud really itched. "Were you the only one home? That's rare."

 

"Nope," Ginny said, in a wondering tone. "Ron was there. Ron even yelled down at him from his own bedroom window, _Oi, mate, what the hell are you doing?_ Almost ruined the mood. I had to charm his mouth shut."

 

"What?" Hermione demanded. "How come I haven't heard this story, yet? Ron never once mentioned it."

 

"Harry begged him not to say a word."

 

Hermione made indignant noises. Not that she could fault Ron for being such a good friend, but she _really_ wanted to. They'd been a couple for years, damn it. "I can't believe I'm the last to hear about this," she muttered. One of the cucumbers fell off her face, and she cursed a bit.

 

She glanced at Ginny, who shrugged a bit. "He swore us both to secrecy. Which _means_ , Hermione, that you can't ever tell him I told you!"

 

"What? That's impossible," Hermione complained. "Every time I see him, I'm supposed to just ignore the fact that he sat under your window with a guitar singing a sappy song? You can't ask that of me."

 

"Hermione, you will keep your pretty little mouth shut, or I'll _sew_ it shut. Not a word. Promise me."

 

"Ginny!"

 

" _Hermione_."

 

She sighed, thrashing a bit in the mud in protest. Such a juice story, and she couldn't even taunt him with it? This hot-as-blazes mud-bath was the seventh circle of _hell_. " _Fine_. But you're ruining my life."

 

"Duly noted."

 

"Where's the guitar, anyway?"

 

Ginny grinned, wickedly, and her tone was impish. "In the bedroom, naturally."

 

"Damn!" Susan hissed. "I've dropped my cucumber." Hermione leaned forward to watch her pick it up in her mud-covered hand, laughing softly.

 

"Me, too," she said.

 

"Amateurs," Ginny scoffed, and shook her head, dislodging the cucumber and going to great pains to get it to flop into her mouth. As she crunched through it, she grinned at Hermione, sending her a wink.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After getting facials and sitting in a steamy room gossiping, they all went to bed in their hotel room – Ginny and Hermione sharing – while gossiping some more. The next day, they had until check-out at noon to make the most of everything else the place had to offer.

 

Ginny and Susan had scheduled a massage that Hermione begged off of. She'd never liked those things. It didn't matter how light the pressure was, the masseuse always dug in, trying to ease the 'knots' in her back, and it always hurt like the blazes. As they left, she leafed through the resort's pamphlet, and the page about the natural hot springs caught her eye. They were a bit of a walk away, and the pictures made it sort of look like a pretty little pool had just appeared naturally in the middle of the wilderness, although Hermione knew that was impossible. They must have been plumbing it in from somewhere.

 

She put her bathing suit under some shorts and a t-shirt, and asked the man at the front desk which direction she should go to reach the 'hot springs.' He directed her to the door, and told her to follow the path for about fifteen minutes, and to use her room card-key to get in.

 

As she walked, she reflected on Ginny's story. It was so _stupid_ , she decided, that Harry had kept the story a secret for such a long time. Not that it wasn't funny, because it certainly was, but it's not like it would have _stayed_ funny for more than a couple of months. Moreover, she was a little disappointed with it because it didn't actually give her any practical solution to her own problems.

 

After all, she was _not_ going to make some big, soppy romantic gesture to Draco, for the following reasons:

 

1: It was not her style.

2: It was not Draco's style.

3: It probably wouldn't work.

 

Then again, she could always make a smaller romantic gesture. The main problem _there_ was that she had no idea what that could possibly be, and she was pretty sure Draco would immediately recognize it for what it was and, unlike Ginny, make fun of her relentlessly or worse.

 

Hermione banished the thoughts with a sigh as she walked through the trees and up the inclining dirt path. This was supposed to be a boy-free weekend, and she was going to be a stickler and assume that the stipulation extended to thoughts. She spent the rest of the walk looking around the trees, her steps slowing a bit as she realized she didn't really want to rush through this little hike. It really was quite pretty out here.

 

Soon enough, she was at the gate, and stuck her card-key in the reader. It opened with a chime, and she caught sight of one edge of the pool as she headed into the building that contained the locker rooms.

 

After stripping her outer clothes and locking them up with her card-key, she headed out, pausing just outside the door to try and wrangle her hair into a bun. She _did not_ want to have to walk back to the hotel part of the resort with her hair sopping wet in this warm weather.

 

A few people were hanging out in the pool, which was in the shape of several overlapping circles that curled around the building. One person in particular caught her eye, and she did a double-take before she realized who it was. Blinking, she took a step towards the edge of the pool he was leaning against, a little stunned to find him there. "Blaise?"

 

He looked up at her, blinking as his eyebrows flicked up a bit in surprise. "Hermione." He frowned. "What are you doing here?"

 

She laughed a bit, moving to the edge and crouching awkwardly before slipping into the water with a soft splash. "Take three guesses, Zabini," she teased. "Besides, it's perfectly normal for _me_ to be here. What are _you_ doing here?"

 

"Do you want three guesses, too?"

 

"You know what I mean," she said, splashing water at him. He tilted his head back to avoid getting it on his face, and it splashed across his neck and chest. A quick glance around told her that no one was close enough to hear them if they kept their voices at a moderate level. "No spas in the wizarding world?"

 

"None half as good," he assured her. He rose out of the water a bit, leaning his elbows against the edge of the pool as he tilted his head, regarding her as she stared at the sudden appearance of his body, dumbly.

 

For some reason, Hermione had _never once_ noticed what Blaise looked like physically. The only real physical attribute that had ever stuck in her head throughout all of Hogwarts was that he was tall. Aside from that, if she'd been asked to describe the man even as little as six months prior, she would have just said: _Dark-skinned, looks like a jerk._ But as she blinked at his chest and his arms, she realized that he was... well, _rather fit_.

 

In fact, he looked like he actually worked out, because people didn't just _look_ like that, naturally.

 

"See something you like?" he drawled, and she realized that she'd been _staring_ as she'd traipsed about in her own thoughts.

 

Flushing a bit, she jerked her eyes up to his face, noting that he looked insufferably smug. His eyes were half-lidded, lending him a slightly predatory look, and she felt her face heat spectacularly. "Sorry," she said, wincing a bit. "I just- you know, I never really ever _looked_ at you, before. Is that weird? I think I was vaguely aware that you were tall, and that was it."

 

"That's something of a blow to my ego," he said, eyes narrowing slightly.

 

Laughing a bit, Hermione shrugged. "Sorry. I guess I was a little too focused on my homework in school to take stock of the boys."

 

"I know. That was much of your appeal." At her bewildered look, he explained, patiently: "The fact that you didn't seem to care made boys like me make you _want_ to care. It would have been a tremendous feat to be the one to do that to you."

 

She snorted. "If you say so. I really doubt it would've been that hard to get my attention if I'd thought anyone actually fancied me."

 

"Why did you think no one did?"

 

She blinked. "Because they didn't," she said, slowly. "I believe the term I kept hearing in reference to myself was 'genderless swot'?"

 

"Said by idiots whose clumsy attempts to try and ask you out had failed," Blaise guessed.

 

Hermione shook her head. "I really think you're a little delusional, Blaise. I had a pretty wide reputation for being no fun, at all. I can only think of two people who ever fancied me in school besides you, and one of them was an absolute idiot."

 

"So then what was MacLaggen?" Blaise asked, innocently, and it took Hermione a second to realize that he'd just called Ron an idiot.

 

"You be nice to Ron, or I'll splash this searing hot water in your face." But she felt the tug of a smile.

 

He noticed, and smirked, himself. "I don't usually stoop to such levels, but if you do decide to engage in aquatic warfare, you will not emerge from this pool with so much as a square inch of you that's dry," he threatened, casually, his eyes glinting with amusement.

 

"Are you saying I can't defend myself?"

 

"Against _me_? Certainly not," he said, with a hint of scorn. She couldn't tell if he was just teasing, or if he really did mean that. Probably both, knowing him.

 

She moved through the pool to plant her elbows on the side, a few feet away from him. "So sure of yourself, are you? You know, I'm a war veteran," she reminded him. "I know my way around a wand."

 

"Did you mean for that to sound so dirty?"

 

Hermione's mouth fell open a little. " _No_ , you pervert," she squawked. "For God's sake. Please, tell me something: What _is it_ with men, that you can't even make an innocuous comment without them making it about their own genitalia? I swear, it's like every single one of you is _obsessed_ with it."

 

"Firstly, I'm a Slytherin, Hermione. I don't believe in innocuous comments." He turned to face her, keeping one elbow planted on the side of the pool. Even half-naked in a steaming pool of water, Blaise managed to look effortlessly nonchalant.

 

"So you think I said that on purpose to make you think about your own penis."

 

He looked a little surprised that she'd said the word so bluntly, and was startled into chuckling, shooting her a more warmly amused glance. "Perhaps."

 

"So when would you say it first happened?" she asked, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

 

"What?"

 

"The first time you were dropped on your head as a child," she said, with her most polite expression. "Would you say it was during your _fundamental_ development, or a little later, when you were learning how to interact with your peers?"

 

"Funny," he commended, his teeth flashing in a quick smile. "In my defense, I was subjected to a rather poor set of peers to learn interpersonal interaction from."

 

Hermione threw her head back a little, laughing. "Was that a slight against _Slytherin_?"

 

"No. Hogwarts."

 

She burst into harder laughter, leaning heavily on the side of the pool. "That _includes me_ , you prat," she said, scooping water in her hand and flinging it at his face.

 

He froze where he was, letting the water drop down his temple and cheek. Then, calmly, he straightened and put his hand in the water.

 

Her eyes went wide, and she turned to try and run through the water, which went about as well as it ever did. As her legs sluggishly churned through, a _wave_ of water erupted over her. She squealed a bit as it bowled her over, dumping her beneath the surface. She found her feet and came back up, spluttering, her eyes shut tight against the water. When she managed to scrub the water back out of her eyes, she opened them, squinting blearily at him as he put his hand back in the water as if to tuck something away.

 

"You cheater," she proclaimed, shoving her now-sopping hair out of her face. "I didn't use _my_ wand," she said, in a much quieter hiss.

 

"Did you see my wand?"

 

"No, but-"

 

"Then you can't prove I used it," he interjected, smoothly, but the corners of his lips were flickering.

 

" _That was not from your hand_."

 

He just smiled enigmatically and let a delicate shrug lift his shoulders.

 

She felt her hair with a grimace, and pulled the hair band out, wincing and hissing a bit as it snagged on her wet curls. "Damn it, Blaise, now I'm soaking wet." Catching his pointed look, she glared at him. "Don't even say it. If you say it, I will _attack_ you."

 

"With your bare hands?" he taunted, his teeth flashing in a smile again.

 

"If need be."

 

He fell silent, wisely, although his insufferable smirk spoke all the volumes for him. Hermione returned to the side of the pool to drop her hair band there, and muttered to herself as she tried to finger-comb through her hair before it tangled. Combing it after a shower was pretty much the only thing keeping the strands separate.

 

Blaise watched her for a moment as she cursed and struggled, and then said, "Do you want help?"

 

She cut him a look. "What, from you?"

 

He blinked slowly by way of answer.

 

She laughed, a little uncomfortably. "That'd be a little awkward, don't you think?"

 

"Why?"

 

"Because- because," she said, lamely, not wanting to flesh out her reasoning with him at _all_. He was just playing stupid so she'd get flustered again. "You know why. It'd be odd. And I feel like if Draco knew about it, he wouldn't like it," she added, pointedly.

 

"It's just your _hair_ , Hermione. One might argue that it's its own entity. I can ask for its consent, if you like."

 

"Ha ha," she said, sarcastically. He straightened from the edge of the pool, moving around behind her. She turned to keep facing him. "What are you doing?"

 

"Relax," he murmured, huffing a laugh. "I fancied you _eight years_ ago. And I know you're too much of a goody-two-shoes to enjoy extramarital perks. Most importantly, my mum has curly hair, and I know for a fact that you are going to sorely regret not letting me help you in just a few minutes." He lifted his hands and his eyebrow, and when she sighed, resigned, he began picking the tangled curls away from each other.

 

It felt weirdly intimate, and she was stiff as he worked on it, fidgeting. She eventually spoke just to take her mind off the feel of his fingers running through the strands. "It's not that I'm a goody-two-shoes, you know. I think it's important to have respect for who you're with. I mean, you and Penelope Clearwater have an agreement, but Draco definitely would never agree to it."

 

"You don't find that odd, for a man who spent most of his time on this planet hating you?" he asked, his voice silky-smooth.

 

She frowned. "No. I think it's normal to want to at least have a connection with who you're married to. Besides, it's not like we chose each other. He was thrown into this as much as I was, and if he wants to give it an honest-to-God try, there's no reason I shouldn't want the same thing."

 

He hummed, thoughtful and smugly amused. "Oh, right. The Matchmakers picked at random, didn't they?" he asked, in a way that immediately set her spine stiff.

 

"Yes," she said. She wanted to turn around and look at his expression, but she was also a little scared of what she'd see there. "Are you trying to insinuate otherwise?" He hummed noncommittally, again, and she scoffed a bit. "What, you think they put me and Draco together on purpose after promising I'd get with Ron? _Why_?"

 

"Well, typically, in the Ministry, things get done when money exchanges hands. And you know that Mr. Weasley missed _that_ crucial step."

 

She stared sightlessly at the ground beyond the edge of the pool. For some reason, it had never occurred to her to suspect foul play; she'd always just assumed that the Matchmakers, fickle as anyone else in the whole sodding Ministry, had simply made a dumb promise to Arthur Weasley that they'd _never_ intended to keep. She'd figured that the woman he'd spoken to hadn't even passed the message along to the one in charge, really.

 

Except...

 

George and Angelina didn't seem to have that problem. It had worked for them. Unless that was just a coincidence. It _had_ to be.

 

Not able to take it anymore, she turned, and the backs of his fingers brushed against her cheeks and her lips before he lowered them. Staring up at him, she said, lowly, "Just what are you saying, Blaise?"

 

He blinked, slowly, the movement sluggish and smug. "I know I don't have to explain it to you. You are _far_ less stupid than everyone else I know, barring perhaps my mother. And myself," he added, with a bit of a smirk. His smirk widened a bit when he took in her dumbstruck expression. "Bribery opens rather a lot of doors, doesn't it? It could even change the entire life of a pair of _celebrated_ war heroes with a rather impressively romantic love story. Provided, of course, you have sufficient money for such an endeavor."

 

She was finding it hard to breathe. "And how much money would it take, hypothetically?" she asked, softly.

 

"The kind of money that few families have to throw around. Although I do think the money was utilized for a good cause – they're using it to refurbish the courtrooms," he said, eyes lingering on her as he enjoyed watching the realization unfold on her face.

 

Because she knew, of course, who was behind the refurbishing of the Wizengamot's courts. She'd always just assumed it was an ingratiating gesture, sort of a thank-you for not sending him to Azkaban.

 

Lucius Malfoy.

 


	28. Return of the Rings

  
**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Return of the Rings**

…

She felt her lungs burning, and sucked in a breath after realizing she hadn't done so in almost a minute. Feeling shaken, Hermione stared at Blaise, who seemed to very much enjoy the schadenfreude of watching her begin to doubt _everything_.

 

"I don't believe you," she finally said, swallowing. "You're trying to get me upset. And I have no idea why, but I know better than to just blindly fall for it."

 

He smiled. "You know, I think you would have made an excellent Slytherin, in another life, perhaps. It's a pity you were born to Muggles. But ask yourself this, Hermione: What do I really have to gain from lying to you, right now?"

 

"I don't know, but that doesn't mean there isn't something," she said, firmly.

 

He shrugged again. "That's true. I suppose you'll just have to investigate," he suggested, eyes going half-lidded again. "Although I do believe I should be able to claim a prize if it turns out I'm not lying. It's rather rare to catch a Slytherin in a moment of honesty."

 

"That's because all you lot ever do is lie."

 

"So then you'll have no problem agreeing," he retorted, smoothly. "If I'm not lying, shouldn't I be rewarded for my honesty?"

 

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to angle for, Blaise?" she asked, feeling a little nauseated by the whole conversation. She wasn't sure what was doing it more – the idea that this entire engagement was based on an even bigger sham than she could have ever imagined, or the idea that Blaise was basically trying to _trade in_ off her emotional capsizing.

 

"I want you to consider it," he said, and the smirk dropped from his face. She just stared at him, and he lifted his eyebrows. "Me. If I'm right, you have no reason to owe him your loyalty. You need to give him the kids, there's no way around it, but you _don't_ need to throw all of your energy into a loveless marriage like an idiot," he said, strongly. "He played with your life and then pretended you were victims in this together."

 

The way he echoed Draco's words just months prior froze her to her core. Noticing her look, he laughed. "Yes. He told me how he managed to get you to stop fighting him every step of the way and open up to him. That's the problem with us Slytherins, I'm afraid. We just can't help trying to twist things into our favor."

 

She swallowed down an acrid taste in the back of her throat. "So, what. You want a reward shag if I find out you're right?" she asked, flatly.

 

His jaw tightened. "No. Go out on a date with me."

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, somehow _more_ upset that Blaise wasn't just looking for a quick shag. It would have been a lot easier to deal with, and then the answer could have been a clear-cut _no_ without reservations. "You said you stopped fancying me after Hogwarts," she accused, opening her eyes to glare up at him.

 

"No, I didn't," he said, with a faint shake of his head. "You did. I just didn't correct you."

 

"That's-" _Damn_ Slytherin and all of his _stupid, stupid house_. "That's _the same_ as lying!"

 

He chuckled. "I disagree. Letting you jump to your own conclusions is hardly my fault. Am I to be blamed for every assumption you've ever made?"

 

"That's a logically fallacious argument."

 

Blaise smiled at her. _Really_ smiled, as though she were a dear friend. "Do you always run into the haven of your mind whenever something's happening to the rest of you that you don't want to deal with?"

 

"It presupposes-"

 

He cut her off, coolly. "It presupposes that in order for me to have disassembled your own assumption, I would have needed to be present for every one that you've had in order to have previously disassembled them, first. Yes, I know. Do you really want to bring pure logic into a situation where you just argued from the moral high ground concerning the very nature of fabrication and deception?"

 

Hermione glared at him. "You let me believe something that was false when you didn't have to, in order to benefit yourself. How is it different from lying?"

 

"Well, this may just be me being a little old school," he said, sarcasm touching his tone. "But I would probably say that it's the lack of _verbal falsehoods_ on my part. I am _generally_ given to understand that lying requires it."

 

Seething, she turned to get away from him – he was too close to her, and she wanted to get a safe distance away before she tried to pull herself out of the spring – but he planted his hand on the side of the pool, halting her progress.

 

"You're not mad at _me_. I know you want to be," he added, in an almost saccharine tone. "But I'm the bearer of bad news, not the wellspring of it. _Think about it._ "

 

She stared at his arm. "Were you truly here by coincidence, today?" She turned her face to look up at him.

 

He was grinning. "You would have been a _remarkable_ Slytherin," he said, approvingly. "It's not good enough to have the brains or the ambition, you know. You have to have the _intuition_. Then the logical framework to back up that intuition. We'd be good together, Hermione. And that's not a sixteen-year old boy's fancy."

 

She turned her face away from him again. "Can I go, now?" she asked, stiffly.

 

"Do we have a deal about that date?"

 

"No," she bit out, her jaw setting furiously. "No, we don't."

 

"You don't believe in rewarding good deeds?"

 

She turned towards him, furiously, planting her hands on his chest and _shoving_ him back. She was gratified to watch his eyes widen as he stumbled back a step, arms pinwheeling a bit in order to keep himself upright. " _I_ am not a _reward._ I am a _person_. Get that through your thick, pureblooded skull, or next time I'm liable to _beat it into there_."

 

Blaise stared at her in shock as she went about ten feet away before hauling herself out of the pool, walking as quickly as she could back into the locker room, probably to limit the time he could spend looking at her body in that little swimsuit of hers.

 

He looked long and hard, hoping she could feel his gaze boring into her back. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

 

Then he climbed out of the pool himself, meandering out of sight and beyond the gate. When he was well enough away from all potential witnesses, he Apparated home. And, despite the fact that she'd shoved him and yelled at him, he found himself smiling as he did so.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She couldn't bring herself to join in on the bubbly talk of her two friends on the drive home. She'd been subdued the whole rest of the morning, offering wan smiles and curt reassurances when they noticed her mood. She knew they assumed that she was just feeling down about having to leave so early, and it was easier to let them think it, so she did.

 

Which meant she was no better than Blaise or Draco or Lucius or any other sodding Slytherin.

 

Everything about the situation made her feel sick to her stomach. She didn't know what was real. Getting to know Draco and slowly developing feelings for him had _felt_ real. Him developing feelings for her had felt real.

 

The camaraderie she'd developed with Narcissa and Lucius had felt real. The burgeoning friendship she sensed between herself and Blaise felt real.

 

But now she was in the snakepit and whatever she'd assumed was real a day ago was gone, leaving her with nothing.

 

Most of all, she felt stupid. She'd _trusted_ a group of Slytherins. Of course, they'd always been manipulators, but she'd been so focused on the surface manipulations (like Narcissa and Lucius inviting her friends to a party to force her attendance or Draco wheedling promises to go on brooms or rollercoasters whenever he was in danger of getting into a serious snit) that she'd been blinded to anything else that might have been going on.

 

Assuming, of course, that Blaise wasn't a liar. But given the confidence with which he'd tried to extract a promise from her to go on a date, she didn't think he was.

 

Unless he was lying about fancying her, too. Which was also a possibility. He may just be trying to mess with her, for some reason of his own that she had _no idea_ about.

 

Hermione was swiftly developing a headache, trying to navigate this hedgemaze of deception. She didn't think Lucius or Blaise were particularly wrong about her – if she'd been pureblooded or even half-blooded, she might have truly excelled in Slytherin. However, she was pretty sure she would have hated every second of it. Lying was so exhausting. Hiding was a nuisance. Trying to figure out the strings she had to pull to force someone's compliance through underhanded tactics wasn't something that she thought she _couldn't_ do, it was simply something she couldn't imagine ever _wanting_ to do.

 

And she supposed that was the core difference. Blaise had missed that part. She had the intuition, she had the smarts, she had the ambition.

 

But she had no desire to be that way. And really, that was the biggest part of the puzzle piece when it came to fitting into Slytherin. You could be dumb in Slytherin (Crabbe and Goyle). You could lack intuition (Pansy). You could even lack ambition (Draco). But none of that mattered if those were the qualities you wanted in yourself. _That_ was a real Slytherin. They hadn't been _born_ with deadly ambition, it was taught to them.

 

And she'd been raised by the Grangers, two socially-aware dentists who had taught her, above all, the importance of being kind and generous and forgiving. Two people who never pretended to be something other than they were, and were unapologetic and even amused by their own faults.

 

Hermione felt her heart constrict a bit, feeling as though she might cry. She really loved her parents. And she really wanted to go to them, right now, and ask them what they'd do if they were her. They didn't understand her attachment to her wand and to magic, but they had always been there to advise her when she didn't know how to handle something, and sometimes having their support wasn't about the actual help as it was the feeling of being helped. Of knowing that they loved her absolutely and would do anything for her.

 

Because she knew she'd do anything for them.

 

And if all of this _was_ true, the first thing she was going to do was untangle her mother from Narcissa's clutches. None of her family would have anything to do with the Malfoys. Draco would have nothing to do with her friends.

 

It took a while to push Hermione to this point, where anger stopped being simple anger and became a _pillage the village and salt the earth_ mentality, but she was pretty sure if Blaise wasn't lying, she'd reach it. She almost felt a sort of relief in the cold fury that enveloped her. It reminded her of battling for her life that day at Hogwarts, when there had simply been nothing outside of herself, her wand, and whatever enemy was in her path. She couldn't spare a thought towards her many concerns or fears.

 

All she could do was move forward and cut down the people that threatened her and her friends.

 

In the last hour of the drive, Hermione had descended into an eerie calm. Ginny glanced at her frequently, especially when Hermione didn't offer any comments about how she'd put her bare feet on the dashboard, but when she'd asked Hermione a few innocuous questions, the curly-haired witch had replied just fine, if a bit absently.

 

She'd have to tell Harry. Something was going on, and Ginny knew herself enough to know that she wasn't picking up on it.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione found her smile again – although it was a little forced – when she dropped the car back off at her parents' house, said goodbye to her friends, and then Flooed home. She checked the windowsill but it was empty. Draco hadn't written back, so he was probably still being a brat. She contemplated not showing up the next morning, but didn't want to be petty _just_ yet.

 

First, she had to find out if it was true, or not. Until then, she wouldn't say anything. Now she just had to figure out how she was going to pretend everything was fine when it was in danger of exploding into a thousand jagged little pieces.

 

When she went to bed, she found she couldn't sleep, even though the entire bed was blessedly hers, again. She found herself crowding against the edge, and groaned. It had only been five nights.

 

It couldn't be a _habit_ already.

 

She rolled over and spread all of her limbs as wide as they could go. "This bed is mine," she announced to the empty room, in the dark. "All of it."

 

She really was becoming a loon.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Even though she'd only slept a few hours, she felt wired as she went to the coffee shop. She saw the familiar head of blonde hair, and chewed on the insides of her lips as she watched his back from the door. She had to get through this interaction without giving away anything, because if she was _wrong_ , he'd just blow up on her and Blaise might have ruined it all to begin with.

 

Maybe that was simply Blaise's intention. She couldn't discount the possibility that he was just giving her phantom fodder to fuel the flames of their mutual destruction.

 

Steeling herself, she sat across from him, feeling her heart _thump_ painfully as she met his stormy grey eyes. She realized that deep down, she really, really wanted Blaise to be a liar. "Good morning, Draco," she said, politely.

 

"Morning," he said, his voice still cool.

 

They sat in silence for a few moments, neither speaking as the waitress dropped off the coffee and croissant with a cheery greeting that they returned with a cordial nod.

 

Hermione didn't touch the croissant, having no appetite. She watched Draco put sugar and cream into his coffee, and then watched him put sugar into hers. The movements, she realized, had become automatic. His eyes weren't on his own fingers when he did them, he was looking out the window, utterly detached from his own hands.

 

"Thank you," she said, breaking the silence. It had been a long time since she'd thanked him for putting sugar in her coffee, and he shot her an annoyed look.

 

Shrugging, he took his own coffee and sipped it.

 

"Did you see your friends, this weekend?" Hermione asked, pulling her mug towards herself.

 

"No."

 

"Why not?"

 

"I didn't feel like it," he said, flatly. She knew there was something else, but whatever it was, apparently he wasn't going to tell her.

 

She grit her teeth a bit as the silence stretched again, becoming awkward. "Did you come here this morning just to glare at me?" she finally asked, cocking her head a bit.

 

"I can't very well show you how annoying I find you from my _house_ , now, can I?"

 

Hermione shot him a guarded look. "You think I'm annoying?"

 

" _Impossibly_ so. It's like you've made it your life's mission to be the world's most annoying person," he snapped. "It shouldn't be possible for a single person to be this _aggravating_. But then, you always were a little overachiever."

 

"If I'm so annoying," she retorted, hotly. "Why bother hanging out with me at all?"

 

A look of shock crossed his face, which was swiftly followed by fury. " _Don't be dense_ ," he snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip.

 

"Pretend, for a second, that I _am_ dense," she insisted. She didn't know if she could trust what he was saying, which was almost painful for her. He seemed sincere, but he'd also seemed remarkably sincere when he'd told her that they were 'victims together' against this entire shoddy law. "Tell me why."

 

"I'm not here to flatter you," he grit out, his eyes flashing.

 

She pressed, "Then why _are_ you here?"

 

" _Because I wanted to see you_!" he exploded, his voice raising considerably. Hermione froze, glancing around the coffee shop, which had become utterly still as all eyes turned to them. Draco realized it a second later and turned a _ferocious_ glare on the whole lot of them. "Mind your business!"

 

Slowly, eyes fell away from them, although Hermione could see everyone glancing up from the corners of their eyes to watch the show.

 

"You know, for someone who hates making a scene, you sure are good at causing them," she said, lowly, feeling her face flush. He simply glared at her, ruthlessly unapologetic about his behavior – and, seemingly, far too angry to be embarrassed. She swallowed. Whatever else happened, she knew she had to apologize for her role in their fight the week prior. Even if he was a lying, manipulative bastard, she wasn't exactly getting a commendation for her own manners. "Draco, I'm sorry I yelled at you last Thursday like I did."

 

He didn't look appeased.

 

She continued on, anyway. "I was frustrated and tired. I don't sleep well when I'm sharing a bed with people. And I let my annoyance get the best of me without communicating with you beforehand about what I wanted. I'm sorry."

 

"You don't sleep well when you're sharing a bed, or you don't sleep well when you're sharing a bed with _me_?"

 

"With anyone," she said, with a sigh. "I was constantly pushing Ron back onto his side. Even Harry gets kicked out-"

 

"Why the _hell_ would Potter be sleeping in your bed?"

 

She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm. "Draco, we've been over this. There's nothing between Harry and me. And there never will be. We have absolutely no interest in each other's sexual parts. Can you let that go, please?"

 

"No." The flat refusal made her eyes snap open.

 

"That's non-negotiable, Draco," she said, feeling fury start slowly working up her spine again. "I am _never_ going to stop being the way I am with Harry. Not for Ron, not for _you_ , not for _anyone_. If you don't like it, then too bad. If you can't stand to be with me because of it, then _leave_."

 

"You know, that attitude – where you'd choose Potter over anyone – how is that supposed to convince anyone that you're not in love with the bloke?"

 

"I don't care about convincing anyone," she hissed. She wasn't going to yell, like he had, aware that they'd gotten themselves too much attention already. "I know how it is between Harry and I, and so does he. If you want to jump to idiotic conclusions and refuse to listen to what I say about it, then that falls on you. If that's the hill you're going to die on, here, then _die_ on it, already."

 

He was openly seething as she spoke. "You. Are. _Infuriating_ ," he ground out.

 

"Kettle much?" she shot back.

 

He lifted his hand from beneath the table and threw a little box onto the surface of it. It bounced once, hitting her croissant and making it slide off the plate. She stared dumbly down at the green, velvet little ring-box he'd first offered to her months prior, during the contract negotiations. "I want you to put your ring back on."

 

"What?" she demanded, shoving the box towards him almost violently, as though it contained a deadly disease. "Why?"

 

"Because you're my fiancée and you're _supposed_ to be wearing my ring," he said, his eyes lit with some unholy fire as he caught the box before it toppled off the table entirely. "You were eager to wear it, once, if I recall, when you thought I was going to murder you in your sleep."

 

"Am I in danger of being murdered in my sleep, now?" she asked, incredulous.

 

He grit his teeth, and his smile was humorless. "It's _very_ tempting, luv. You have _no_ idea."

 

"You really need to work on finding an appropriate outlet for your anger issues," she said, scowling. He opened the box and held the ring up, and she crossed her arms. "Why are you suddenly so intent on this?" Her tone had suddenly grown suspicious and arch. "You haven't mentioned it once in the entire last month."

 

He growled in frustration and held his other hand out for hers. "We're _getting married_ , so wear the bloody ring! You already had the damn things investigated!"

 

Well, that was true. And she trusted Bill's judgment on the matter.

 

Hermione ground her teeth together, looking at his face. He didn't look like he was planning anything, he just looked upset. She supposed that - since she knew the rings were harmless - it wouldn't be a big deal to just concede this one thing. Rolling her eyes emphatically to let him know how _stupid_ she thought this segment of the argument was, she gave him her hand. He put the ring on, and handed her his, which she slid onto his finger. "There," she huffed. "Happy?"

 

He was looking down at his platinum band, and she realized he'd relaxed quite a bit once both of the rings were on. Annoyed that something so idiotic could placate him, she picked up the ring box and threw it at his face.

 

Draco flinched back on contact. "Ow! You _bint_." He managed to catch it as it bounced off his cheek, though, his Seeker instincts kicking in.

 

She just glared at him.

 

He returned her glare for a few tense moments, and then softened a bit. "Alright," he muttered. "Fine. I'm sorry I called you names." He saw her getting riled up, about to speak, and raised a hand. " _And_ I'm sorry I keep getting my head twisted around with the Potter thing." Then, more quietly. "And I'm sorry I stayed over when I could tell it was bothering you."

 

"So you _did know_ ," she accused, mouth falling open in outrage.

 

" _Yes_ , alright? I'm _pathetic_ , not _stupid,_ " he snapped, and that shut her up, especially when he snapped his own teeth together with an audible _click_ and flushed a bit, eyes dropping to the table. He chewed on nothing for a second, his jaw working as his eyes bored into the table.

 

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. It wasn't _fair_.

 

Hermione found herself counting down a list of all his flaws. He was needy. He was childish. He was temperamental. He was manipulative. He had no qualms about lying. He could be _really_ mean, especially when his feelings were hurt. His feelings were _very easily_ hurt. He was self-centered, he hated her friends, and was a no-good, spoiled little _brat_. Everything he'd told her might have been a complete and utter lie.

 

It should have been easy to hate him.

 

And she _wanted_ to. She longed for the ease with which she'd hated him in school. It had been so less complicated then, before she'd gotten to know him at all.

 

Because the flaws were easily seen, and she'd known them for years.

 

For some reason, Draco Malfoy was like the anti-human; he wore his flaws on the outside like a shield, so he could hide any good, soft parts from the sharp, calculating minds of his so-called friends and family. And the thing that bothered her the most was that there were as many good parts to him as there were bad. Or, rather, all of his flaws had a flip-side to them that she found herself a little attached to: His childishness sometimes manifested into silliness. His mean streak could be softer, manifesting as teasing. His easily hurt feelings sometimes made him unexpectedly and poignantly kind. He was confident, and smart, and he made her laugh, even when she was boiling mad. Even when he was being a brat, she found herself _charmed_ by his brattiness.

 

And he'd said he didn't really mind her friends.

 

After spending nearly a minute speechless, she said, softly, "Draco, I've come to really like you." His eyes lifted to hers as he swallowed. "And I want us to be able to be honest with each other, even if it hurts. _Especially_ if it hurts. Nothing can be all happy, all the time, but it's how we deal with the hard parts that define us. And I think, you know, us? This relationship?" She gestured between them. "It's going to be hard. But I can be strong enough for it if you'll be strong with me."

 

He released a shuddering breath. "You're already strong," he said, a little bitterly. "You've always been. I don't know how to be like that, Hermione. It's useless trying."

 

"No, it isn't," she said, eyes widening a bit. "You've already changed a lot from the man you were when we first met in that conference room. I couldn't like you this much if I thought it was useless. I've seen glimpses of the man I think you can be, and I really, _really_ like that bloke. Don't stop trying. It's not going to happen overnight." He ran his hands through his hair, looking harried. "It's the little victories, Draco," she said, softly. "The war isn't won by a single action. It's a thousand little actions. If we'd missed even one of those little actions, Voldemort might be ruling from a throne made of Muggle corpses, right now."

 

He exhaled roughly through his nose, the closest thing she'd heard to a laugh from him in days.

 

She fiddled with the ring, looking at it on her little finger. "I would have thought your mum would have wanted this back," she murmured.

 

"She got a new one. She wanted you to have it."

 

Hermione sipped at her coffee. "Well. That was... nice of her," she said, finally. She thought Narcissa had rather liked this ring. She wasn't sure if that was Narcissa's way of trying to keep Hermione ingratiated to her or just simply a nice gesture. She wanted to find Blaise and curse him for creating all these doubts. She eyed Draco for a moment, noticing that he looked noticeably less upset, now. She tried not to feel suspicious. "Since we're being brutally, painfully honest, do _you_ have anything you want to chuck at me?"

 

She said it casually, and almost wanted to congratulate herself for sounding so normal. She was desperately hoping that if Blaise's accusations were true, Draco would just admit to it then and there.

 

Instead, he snorted. "You're a real bint when you're sleep-deprived."

 

"Well, I knew that."

 

"And now I do, too."

 

She waited. Then she prompted, "Nothing else?"

 

He sent her a sharp, probing look, and she tried to keep her expression even. Something in his eyes flickered, and then disappeared. "No."

 

She swallowed. There was still the strong possibility that Blaise was completely lying. And she was frustrated with herself that she wanted that to be the case so _badly_. She was scared of how crushed she might be to find out that it was all true. She wanted to ask Draco, then and there, if he or his parents had altered the results of the Matchmakers purposefully.

 

But instead, she said, "Alright, then."


	29. Super Draco World!

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Super Draco World!**

…

That same Monday, Hermione began trying to find some sort of proof as to Blaise's accusations.

 

She didn't tell anyone of what she was trying to do, not even Harry, although she sorely wanted to. Harry might have an idea of how to go about investigating this sort of thing. So far, the only idea Hermione could come up with was 'ask a bunch of annoying questions', which was just about the least subtle thing she could possibly do in this situation. She'd looked up the date of Lucius Malfoy's donation to the courtroom restoration, and it was four days before the announcement of her match to Draco.

 

Hermione wasn't sure if that was evidence _for_ or _against_ Blaise's accusation. Ministry bureaucracy was ridiculously sluggish, on the one hand. On the other, money was an excellent fire to put under arses. It was possible that Lucius had only parted with the money after receiving confirmation that her match had been tampered with to his satisfaction.

 

Harry probed her a bit whenever he came by her cubicle, but she could see from the exasperation on his face that he merely thought she was overworking herself again.

 

Against all odds, an entire _week_ passed with her keeping her little dirty secret. Her mornings with Draco went well enough, for the most part returning to their prior subject matter (mostly concerning his morbid fascination with the poor state of the Muggle world; she'd even started bringing him Muggle newspapers to take home and read, although he complained once that the pictures were 'broken'). Once he'd relaxed a bit, he returned mostly to his old self. He even reminded her, with a cheeky smile, that she owed him a trip to Thorpe Park again, and she'd been so overwhelmed with anxiety at the thought of the rollercoasters that she briefly forgot about the allegations Blaise had laid at his doorstep and had spent the entire morning trying to wheedle out of the promise. Thursday morning, he'd asked if he could watch another film with her, hastily adding that maybe it could be at a Muggle theater.

 

She could tell he knew that she wouldn't want him in her bedroom for a bit, and for a moment, her heart was full of gratitude to him for not trying to weasel his way back into her home. In fact, he hadn't popped by at all since she'd kicked him out, in an amazing show of restraint. For the first time since Blaise had shocked her in that hot spring pool, Hermione allowed herself to think that even if Draco _had_ somehow been involved with tampering with her matching, maybe she could forgive him. If it was true, that still didn't necessarily negate the ways he'd changed just in the last few months they'd been engaged, right?

 

And he'd even shown an interest in Muggle things, against his old prejudices. He wanted to see more Muggle films.

 

She'd agreed to making a date with him the following Monday, since she'd already promised to meet Narcissa on Sunday and she was supposed to babysit James and Albus Saturday night (Harry had wasted literally zero time before cashing in on her promise). She wasn't sure if she should meet with either Narcissa nor her son until her investigation was done – it was getting harder and harder to just pretend everything was normal – but in the end she decided to frame it as a bit of a challenge to herself.

 

One that she'd know she won if she managed to successfully keep the secret from Harry. Her best friend had started watching her with a hawk-like expression.

 

He knew something was up.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Which _may_ have been why Draco was already at Grimmauld Place when Hermione arrived on Saturday to babysit. If that wasn't shocking _enough_ , both Ginny and Harry were _laughing_ at something Draco was saying.

 

Hermione stared at the scene before her, frozen in the fireplace.

 

Draco was on the couch, Albus standing on his knees as he balanced him upright. The toddler was giggling non-stop as Draco tilted him back and forth. James was bouncing on the couch to his right, squealing ' _Draco, Draco, Draco_ ' in a desperate bid for the blonde man's attention, waving his stuffed dragon in Draco's face. Ginny was on the other side of James, her arm hooked around the four-year old's waist to keep him from outright pummeling the poor man with the toy.

 

And Harry was in the recliner opposite, chuckling warmly, as though it were _perfectly natural and ordinary_ to have Draco Malfoy in his house, playing with his small children.

 

"What..." Hermione sputtered a bit. "What is this? What's going on?"

 

Ginny smiled up at her. "Oh, Malfoy and I saw Andromeda again today, bringing the boys over for a play-date with Teddy." Hermione just stared, blankly. Since when did Ginny and Draco _make plans together_ of their own accord? Were they talking, now? Without her? _What in Merlin's name was happening._ Oblivious to Hermione's uneasy thoughts, Ginny continued, "And we started talking about parenting and he confessed he wasn't sure he was ready, so I told him he should try it out for the night with his future wife. Not a bad plan, hey?"

 

Hermione continued to stare vacantly, her usually brilliant and constantly whirling mind _finally_ at a full stop.

 

"By the _way_ , you were right about him suddenly developing a sense of humor over the past seven years," Ginny added. "Also, you will not _believe_ the things he knows about the Who's Who list of the pureblood party circuit," she added, in a stage whisper.

 

Oh, dear God. "I knew I should have never left you two alone," Hermione said, in a hoarse voice full of horror. " _No_ gossiping, either of you."

 

Draco laughed, and Albus mimicked him, laughing merrily along. "Nothing doing. There's finally _one person_ in your group of friends who _appreciates_ my hard-earned gossip, and I do not intend to squander that gift."

 

"Hey, I was appreciating!" Harry defended.

 

"All you did was go, _who? Who? Who's that?_ at everything I said," Draco corrected. "You're a disgrace to gossips everywhere, Potter."

 

Harry rolled his eyes, getting to his feet to stand beside Hermione. "Fine. I don't want to be in your stupid gossip clique, anyway. Hermione and I will form our own clique. A better clique."

 

"Yeah," Hermione agreed, a little huffy, herself. She nodded along with Harry, crossing her arms.

 

"We'll be the Rational Rabbits."

 

Hermione's head-nod turned into a head-shake as she shot Harry a _look_. "No," she said, softly.

 

"No? What?" he asked, in an undertone.

 

"Don't... Don't name us. That makes us sound like losers," she whispered.

 

"That was a good name," he defended, also in a whisper.

 

"Rational _Rabbits_?"

 

He paused. "Okay, so the noun needs a little work, but you try coming up with an alliteration like that on the fly!" he hissed. "It's a lot harder than it looks. Go on. Do it."

 

"Logical Lions," she murmured, promptly.

 

Harry stared at her for a long moment. Then he cursed, softly. "Damn you. Alright. That's good."

 

Draco and Ginny were watching the whispered exchange with half-lidded eyes, amused and a little disdainful. It was weird, seeing them sit together making the exact same facial expression. "Well, _that_ was the saddest thing _I've_ ever seen," Ginny declared, eyebrows lifting sardonically. "And what does that make Malfoy and I, then?"

 

"The Gossiping G- Ganders," Harry blurted out, before Hermione could stop him.

 

Hermione shook her head at him, again. "Just stop," she whispered, embarrassed.

 

Harry placed his hands on his hips, biting his lower lip as he scrunched his nose, nodding. "I froze up on that one," he admitted, also in a whisper. "Sorry. That makes the whole group look bad. I'll take the blame for that one."

 

Ginny laughed, plopping James on the floor as she stood up. "Well, if the Rabbits don't mind breaking apart for a few hours, this Gander's going to take one of them out," she said, smiling as she approached Harry and pressed her lips into his for a slightly-too-long peck. Harry grinned brilliantly as she pulled back.

 

"Farewell, fellow Rabbit," he told her.

 

"Don't," Hermione said, firmly. Harry shot her a wink as Ginny threw the powder into the Floo, pulling him along with her. Hermione stared at the green flames for a second, and then turned back to Draco and the boys. "I can't believe Harry's trusting you with his children."

 

"Me, neither. I should take this opportunity to teach them dirty words," he said, thoughtfully.

 

"That's brave. You've seen Ginny's hexes, right?"

 

Draco closed an eye as James 'flew' the stuffed dragon right into his face. "Yes, and that is a _very_ good point. I'll save it for their teenage years, then, when I can blame it on school."

 

Hermione paused a moment, realizing for the first time that he really was planning to stay in this for the long haul. Sure, the marriage was going to be ten years, most likely, and both boys would be teenaged then, but it hadn't really _hit_ her until he'd said that. Not only was he thinking about their marriage, he was thinking about how he was going to relate to her friends for all ten years of that marriage. And he'd said it so casually, too, like it was simply a given that he would be in Harry's family's lives over the next decade. Hermione felt her heart stutter a bit.

 

She pulled out her wand, and charmed the dragon, watching as its wings flexed and it wriggled in James' grip.

 

The little boy's eyes went wide with delight and shock as he dropped the dragon, and it pulled itself into the air and made a lazy swoop around the room as he chased it.

 

"Thank you," Draco said, with a soft sigh of relief.

 

"And _you_ think you're ready for fatherhood," Hermione scoffed, shooting him a wry look. Her scoffing turned into a smile, though, as Albus twisted in Draco's hands and reached for her, shouting _Hermy!_ "Oh, hello, Albus, sweetling," she cooed, picking him up and hoisting him high as he screamed in laughter. She grinned up at him and let him "drop," right into her waiting hands. "Oh, was that fun?" Considering that the boy was still laughing, she knew it was. "You're going to be a little Quidditch player, like your parents."

 

"Up! Fly!" Albus demanded, and she hoisted him up and let him drop into her own hands again as he squealed in pure joy. She laughed, pulling him close and pressing a few kisses to his laughing face.

 

She noticed Draco staring at her, and flushed a bit. "What?" she asked, embarrassed.

 

He shook his head a bit, blinking a bit as he came out of his daze. Slowly, a smile formed on his face, soft and sweet. "I don't care what you say, I can't wait to have babies with you," he said, softly.

 

She felt her face heat spectacularly, dropping her gaze to the relative safety of the toddler in her arms. "Well... promise you'll wait a _little_ bit," she finally murmured, in a dry tone. "Trust me, you haven't seen me after spending the week here with these guys. Anyone can be good with children for a few hours."

 

Draco's smile widened. "Okay. I promise."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was surprised, first and foremost, by how gentle Draco was with both of them. Even James, who was a little hellion on his _best_ days, got nothing harsher than a firm, _No, James, put that down_ from her fiance. In turn, the boys were _obsessed_ with their new "Uncle Draco," constantly demanding his attention and even ignoring Hermione to get it.

 

Which she was definitely _not a little annoyed about_ , or anything.

 

"What makes you so special?" she huffed, when Albus once again waddled past her to beg Draco to pick him up. She crossed her arms a bit, looking a little peeved.

 

He couldn't help but laugh at her expression as he picked the toddler up. "I'm just _new_ , Hermione, not better. Although, I do find your jealousy _very_ fetching."

 

"Oh, shut up."

 

He glanced at the clock, and said, "It's almost time for-"

 

"No, don't!" Hermione tried to cut him off, grimacing a bit as she waved her hands at him to try and stop that last word from coming out of his mouth.

 

"-Bed?" Draco finished, blinking in confusion.

 

James' eyes went wide as he gasped, and then _ran_. Soon, his pudgy little body was out of sight as he galloped through the kitchen and around the corner.

 

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Hermione grumbled, jogging after him. "James, come back here!" Silence met her demand, and she groaned, turning back to Draco. "He'll be in one of his hiding spots. Can you put Albus in his crib? Oh, change him again before you do?" He just nodded, dumbly.

 

Hermione was already striding away, after James, when she realized that Draco hadn't even complained about being given nappy duty, something Ron had always steadfastly refused to do after trying once with James and getting peed on.

 

Blinking a bit, she ushered the thoughts away, and started hunting for the four-year old, her wand out. She murmured a charm to it, and the wand spun in her palm, pointing.

 

She followed it.

 

Five minutes later, she was pouncing on James as he screamed in protest from behind the couch in the drawing room. "No!" he wailed, thrashing. "I don't wanna go bed! Noooo!"

 

"James, don't you want a story?" she tried, plaintively.

 

"No!"

 

"Are you sure? I had a really good one for tonight," she wheedled. "About a dragon." James stopped thrashing as the word permeated his screams, looking at her with a suspicious squint. "But, if you don't want to hear it, then..."

 

"I want to!" he quickly assured her, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. "What kinda dragon?"

 

"A Norwegian Ridgeback," she said, naming his favorite. "Are you sure you want to hear it? You're only allowed to listen to it if you're under your covers. You know storytime rules." He still looked hesitant, but when she held out her hands and smiled winningly, he only put up a token grumble of misery before walking into them, letting her pick him up.

 

Exhaling with relief, she made her way back to the stairs, climbing them and bringing him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. She turned off the faucet when he was done, and stepped out into the hallway after gathering him in her arms again.

 

Although she stopped dead when she heard it.

 

Singing.

 

Her eyes went comically wide, her mouth falling open in pure, unadulterated shock as she registered Draco's quiet voice, singing some lullaby she'd never heard. He was keeping quiet, but the house was even quieter, and his voice carried through it.

 

"What's that?" James asked, loudly, and the song stopped abruptly.

 

She walked down the hallway to the boys' room – which they shared not because Grimmauld Place had a shortage of rooms, but because having the companionship seemed to keep James from trying to crawl into his parents' bed at night – and peeked around the corner. Draco was sitting on the bed, looking through a storybook with avid disinterest, pretending for all the world like he hadn't just been _singing_ a _lullaby_ to a _toddler._

 

This was too rich, and Hermione couldn't keep the smile fully off her face as she walked towards the bed, bending down to move the blankets before dropping James onto it. Draco took one look at her expression and scowled, flushing lightly.

 

"Alright," she said, after tucking James in. She took a seat on the bed, beside Draco, and leaned over James so that her hand was planted on his far side. "Are you ready for the story? Are you _completely_ under the covers?"

 

"Yes!" he promised, wriggling a bit.

 

"Are you sure? I think I see your hand out," she said, feeling her way down the blankets.

 

"No, they're here! Here!" he said, pressing them up against the underside of the blanket.

 

Hermione poked them both. "Oh! There they are. Alright, I guess you are all snuggled in," she admitted, grinning at him. "Alright, here it goes. Once, there was a dragon who lived all by himself on the top of a mountain in the middle of a vast forest..."

 

James was dead asleep before she even finished the story, his mouth falling open as he breathed. She paused, letting the silence sink in a bit to see if he was awake enough to notice, and then stood gingerly when he didn't rouse.

 

Draco followed suit, and they both crept out of the room, extinguishing the light as they went. Draco stared at the Lion King-themed nightlight as they closed the door most of the way, leaving only a crack. Slipping quietly down the hall behind her, he didn't break the silence until they were back in the living room. "Did you make that story up?"

 

She was picking up the toys the boys had strewn about the place, collecting them in her arms. "Hm? Oh. No, not really. I sort of borrowed quite a bit from other fairytales I'd read when I was little."

 

Silence reigned for another moment as she straightened, her arms overflowing with toys, and walked to the little chest beside the couch and lifted her foot to nudge it open. Then she dumped her armful of toys inside, clapping her hands a bit and brushing the front of her shirt. The toys were always _filthy_.

 

Draco sat down again, looking strangely at a loss for what to do without the boys demanding his every waking brain cell.

 

She sat beside him, and said, "So. You sing."

 

Watching him blush was fascinating. It crawled up his neck, leaking onto his face in big blotchy patches, making his hair look nearly neon in comparison. All in all, Draco did _not_ have a pretty blush. "No," he said, scornfully. "I was just humming-"

 

"Singing," she corrected.

 

" _Humming_ a tune-"

 

"Singing."

 

" _That my mother used to sing_ ," he finished, glaring at her.

 

Hermione started to laugh, but at his furious look, she bit it back, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. "I've never heard that song. Is it popular among wizard children?" she asked, when she finally got her chuckles under control.

 

"Yes," he muttered.

 

"It's cute. Is the entire thing about unicorns?"

 

He closed his eyes. "Yes," he grit out.

 

"Sing it for me?"

 

"No."

 

"Oh, come on, Albus gets to hear it but _your fiancee_ doesn't?" she pressed. "Besides, I think I should know what you'll be singing to our future children, don't you?"

 

"I'm not singing it, so you can just forget it," he informed her, crisply.

 

"But you have such a pretty voice."

 

"That's it." He stood. "I'm leaving."

 

Hermione burst out laughing, grabbing the cuff of his shirt as he tried to march to the Floo, tugging on it. He tugged back, and she warned, "It might rip." Scowling, he stopped, glaring down at her imperiously. "Don't go," she said, softly, her grin still wide. "I'll be bored without you."

 

That seemed to soften him, and he allowed himself to be coaxed back onto the couch. "So what film are we seeing on Monday?"

 

"I want to see _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ ," she said, promptly. It was the only thing out at the moment that had caught her interest – except for maybe March of the Penguins, but she thought Draco might be bored by a documentary. "It's based on a very popular children's book."

 

She expected questions, like _what's it about_ and all that, but he just nodded. She had to remember that he was still very used to plays – what was playing was what was playing, and you didn't fuss about what the play was about when you bought tickets to it. When it came to wizarding theater, there wasn't a whole lot of options, so it was either go to whatever was playing or stay home and stare at the carpet.

 

"You realize," she said, slowly. "That I will not be able to _not_ tell Harry and Ginny that you sang."

 

" _Do not._ "

 

"I just told you, I can't!"

 

"You _will_ hold your tongue, Hermione, or I'll hex it out of your head," he promised, and right on cue, the Floo roared to life and Harry and Ginny stepped out of it, smiling and looking quite pleased with themselves. Draco narrowed his eyes at her.

 

Hermione looked between them, seemingly about to burst. Then she blurted, "Draco sang a lullaby to Albus!"

 

Ginny, who had been in the middle of saying _hello_ , stopped short and stared at them, the smile frozen on her face as she struggled to accept this fact as reality.

 

"No, I didn't," Draco said, swiftly, but his flush was too telling.

 

"What was the song?" Harry asked, blinking, while Ginny remained stunned.

 

"It's about unicorns," Hermione said, with glee.

 

Ginny inhaled, deeply, and then exhaled. Then she walked calmly over to the loveseat opposite the couch, laid down facefirst on it, and proceeded to laugh so hard she probably wet herself. The cushions muffled the booming noise, keeping it from carrying upstairs.

 

Harry was chuckling, himself. "Malfoy, I didn't know you had it in you," he drawled, putting his hands on his hips. "Unicorn lullabies. Hermione, I hope you're not too disappointed. I know how you like the 'bad boys.'"

 

"What?" she huffed. "I do not."

 

"You do, too. You had that crush on Snape in third year," he retorted.

 

Hermione's mouth dropped open in _horror_.

 

Harry's smirk was slow, but spread wide, and even Ginny stopped laughing herself sick to jump up off the loveseat, staring at Hermione in tandem with Draco. From the corner of her eyes, she could see Draco's open expression of unmitigated disgust. There was silence as they all stared at her. Then Harry said, smugly, "You didn't think I knew, did you?"

 

Frozen, Hermione could only stare at him.

 

Draco whispered, "No. _Professor_ Snape?"

 

She jumped to her feet, stepping up to Harry with narrowed eyes. "How did you know that?" she hissed. She'd never told _anyone_.

 

"Haven't I told you, before?" Harry said, with delight, tapping her on the nose. He managed to pull his finger back before she could slap it away from herself. "I know you better than you know yourself, Hermione Granger."

 

"It's _true_?" Ginny gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Hermione started to flush, stuttering a bit.

 

"Oh, dear Merlin, it's _true_ ," Draco intoned, from behind her.

 

"I was just a third-year!" Hermione defended, shrilly. Ginny rushed to shush her, pointing at the stairs, and she dropped her voice even as she bloomed bright red. "He saved us from a werewolf! You have to admit, that was _pretty_ dashing."

 

"Do me a favor, Hermione, and never use that word in regards to Professor Snape again," Harry huffed. "It gives me the worst feeling. You can't imagine."

 

"I really did not think this night could get better," Ginny said, wonderingly. "Who do I have to thank for this? Santa Claus?" She looked up at the ceiling. "Thank you, Santa. Happy Christmas."

 

"That's it, I'm leaving," Hermione said, in a cranky tone.

 

As she tried to walk to the Floo, Harry held his arm out, catching her about the neck and whirling her about, laughing softly. He gave her a gentle noogie and she squawked, trying to stomp on his foot. "Don't be a poor sport. You just sold out Malfoy's songbird tendencies and we all had a good laugh."

 

"You didn't _have_ to bring that back up," Draco muttered. "You could have left it on Snape."

 

"I'm _never_ going to forgive you, Harry Potter," Hermione promised. "Also, I'm taking back my other nineteen nights of babysitting."

 

"Oh, no, you're not," Ginny told her. "In fact, I'm only counting this as _half_ of one, since Malfoy helped."

 

"You _can't do that_."

 

"Yes, I can," Ginny said, serenely. "Now, I'm going to bed, because I have training tomorrow, and we've already shagged _quite_ thoroughly-" Draco pulled a face as the mental image forced itself into his head. "So you two go down to the basement and play plumbers if you want, but whatever you do, you better keep it quiet because I'm _not_ getting up to deal with James if you wake him."

 

"Plumbers?" Draco asked, eyebrows shooting up. Ginny declined to answer, heading upstairs.

 

Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs, making him bowl over with a grunt and release her. "It's a video game Harry and I like to play." She saw the next question forming on Draco's lips. "It's a game you can play on the telly."

 

"And I call Mario," Harry wheezed.

 

"I'm not playing with you! I'm mad at you," Hermione reminded him.

 

"You just don't want to be Luigi."

 

Hermione glared at him, lips pursed. Then she elbowed him again, _viciously_ , making him blanche with pain as he collapsed against the recliner. She sprinted for the basement door, throwing it open and disappearing down the stairs.

 

"No fair," Harry choked, clutching at his solar plexus.

 

Draco looked between Harry and the door, utterly perplexed. "What in _Merlin's name_ are you two going on about?"

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione had claimed the first controller and had _refused_ to cede it to Harry, which they argued about venomously for upwards of twenty minutes. Draco had simply watched them fight over the hunk of plastic like a pair of _actual children_ , and he found himself gazing in awe at the two of them. Both of them largely came across as somewhat mature and a little more serious, at least compared to their red-headed buddy, so watching them squibble like eight-year olds was truly fascinating.

 

Even more so when he realized (after asking and getting an impatient answer) that the two characters they were fighting over playing were _literally_ the exact same, except different colors. Neither of them had any advantages against each other. They didn't even look different.

 

He would never understand Muggles.

 

Once the game started, Draco watched in fascination as they started playing through the levels. The game made no logical sense and he couldn't see anything that counted as a narrative. It seemed like the point was to jump around and kill things and hit blocks that spat out Galleons. Despite this seeming like a pretty straightforward premise, both of them found something to snipe at each other with every few seconds.

 

It wasn't until he checked the time and realized how late it was that he stood. "Hermione, it's half one," he said, softly. "You're supposed to meet my mother at the manor at eight."

 

"Oh! Bugger," Hermione hissed, tensing a bit as though she were getting prepared to stand, but she remained sitting, her eyes locked on the screen. "This level's almost over. Give me a second."

 

"You've replayed that level several times," Draco said, firmly. "You should go home and sleep."

 

"We've had to do it over a million times because Hermione playing Mario is _bad luck_ ," Harry muttered, for the fortieth time that evening. "I told you I should've been Mario. Give me back my controller."

 

"You can have this controller over my _lifeless, desiccated corpse_."

 

Draco walked casually over to the outlet that the telly and the 'console' (or whatever it was called) was plugged into, and considered it for a moment with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to recall Hermione explaining that without these outlets, none of these crazy Muggle inventions would actually work. He bent over to inspect it, and pulled. The plug slid out, and the screen went black, and the two _fully grown adults_ behind him erupted into screams of outrage.

 

He turned back, regarding the black screen innocently. "Oh, you're done," he said, with a slight smile as he ignored their twin glares. "Well, let's head off, then."

 

"We could have beat that level half an hour ago if you hadn't insisted-"

 

Hermione shoved Harry to the ground and he yelled, throwing his arms over his head as she began slapping at him indiscriminately. "Say it again!" she threatened, as she slapped. "Go on, say it, if you're so _brave_."

 

"Malfoy! Get my wife!" Harry pleaded, curling up into a little ball.

 

Instead, Draco reached for Hermione, hooking his hands under her armpits and hauling her to her feet. When she moved to drop back down on Harry again, he quickly hooked an arm around her waist, waiting with a resigned sigh for her to stop swinging her arms at her friend like the lunatic he was beginning to suspect she was.

 

Harry quickly scooted out of reach, grimacing as he rubbed at the spots where she'd managed to land a blow. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you have hands like _hammers_."

 

She kicked at him, but he was well out of the way. Draco steered her towards the stairs, and said, in the exact same tone he'd used with James earlier in the evening: "Up the stairs, right now." When Hermione looked like she was considering going after Harry again, he planted his hand in her back and _walked_ her to the bottom step. Although she remained surly when she prepared to Floo home, she did bid Harry a terse "Good _night,_ I suppose" before she disappeared into the fireplace.

 

Draco prepared to use the Floo himself to head back to the Manor, when Harry spoke. "Hey - you know," he said, a little awkward now that they were one-on-one. When Draco looked at him, he finally offered a crooked smile. "You're not too bad, these days. Maybe you should come over a bit more often."

 

Snorting softly, Draco said, "Will that offer stand if she and I are fighting?"

 

Harry shrugged, thoughtful. "As long as you don't do your arguing _here_... If you and Ginny end up friends, you know, Hermione won't have the right to bar you from the house. Same for us."

 

He couldn't help the automatic sneer that touched his face. "Do you think _we_ could be friends, Potter?"

 

"Yeah, probably," Harry said, without hesitation. He smiled at Draco's stunned expression, and waved as he headed for the stairs. "See you next weekend, maybe." Then he headed up them, leaving Draco behind to stare after him.

 

He thought about what Hermione had said before, about Harry being too tired to hate, these days. For a moment, he looked at the Floo powder in his hands and then around the room he'd spent the evening in, and huffed an incredulous laugh. His life was turning out to be very odd, indeed. He supposed that was the trick of it, though: adapting to whatever the world decided to spit up on your shoes.

 

He tossed the powder in the fire, and went home, feeling strange - anxious, but in a _good_ way. He slept brilliantly that night.

 


	30. The Tree of Knowledge

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty: The Tree of Knowledge**

 

…

 

The next day, she forced herself up to head over to the Manor, and was surprised to find that she had beaten her mother there. Hermione was still swallowing yawns as Narcissa greeted her with the customary cheek kisses.

 

“Have you eaten yet, darling? Draco's not even _up_ yet,” she added, in a long-suffering tone. “He never used to be so lazy when he was younger. I sent Trippy up to wake him and force him downstairs. We should eat as a family more often,” she added, brightly, ushering Hermione away from the Floo.

 

Surprised, Hermione glanced between Narcissa's elegant dress and her own jeans and trainers. “Uh, I'm not sure if I'm dressed for--”

 

“Not to worry,” the blonde woman said, smoothly, and Hermione realized that she wasn't being led towards the dining room at all. Narcissa took her arm in a gentle, but leading grip and headed up the stairs. Hermione realized she'd never, not once, been _up the stairs_ in this house. She knew from looking at it from the outside that there were five floors to the building, not counting any attics, but all the main guest spaces were located firmly on the ground floor: The dining room, the ballroom, the drawing room, the study, and the other ten or so rooms that Hermione was _sure_ had proper, official names. All she knew about them was that they were meant to entertain people in.

 

The kitchen was below, adjacent to the vast collection of cellars, only one of which had a nefarious purpose. Hermione wondered, sometimes, if it was still used for that.

 

They bypassed the first floor and went straight to the second.

 

The portraits lining the hallway shifted and sneered at her as she passed, while Narcissa looked resolutely ahead. Hermione saw a few of them move their mouths, but apparently they'd all been silenced. She wasn't sure if that was permanent or simply a charm that Narcissa had enacted while Hermione was in the Manor. She met the gaze of a particularly furious looking man, who even in portraiture had a gaze that could freeze fire, and couldn't resist sticking her tongue out at him as she passed.

 

Take that, two hundred generations of blood-prejudice.

 

Narcissa led her down the hallway. “This is the East Wing. Lucius and I stayed here when we first married, before Draco came along,” she said, her voice fond with the memories. “Once we had Draco, of course, we were moved to the West Wing, and Lucius' father moved to the Rose Suites up on the third floor.”

 

“Who stays in the East Wing now?”

 

“Draco does. It's the children's wing,” she added. “There are play rooms and the like. He remains in his childhood room, currently.”

 

Interesting. “So is that where Lucius grew up?”

 

“Indeed,” Narcissa agreed. “Of course, there are four other bedrooms in the wing, but no Malfoys have had more than a single child born to any couple in six generations. The other bedrooms are sometimes repurposed as guest rooms, and we just leave the rest of the third floor vacant.”

 

“So the Rose Suites are for the... grandparents,” Hermione said, slowly. “And they share the third with the guest rooms.” At Narcissa's nod, she asked, “What's on the top floor?”

 

“The solarium, the observatory, and some additional drawing rooms and studies. There's also another suite for great-grandparents, although that hasn't been used in a long time. People are waiting to be a bit older before having children, you see.” She paused, and then added, “There is also a rather old space that was used for prayers, once, although I daresay it doesn't see much use these days.”

 

Hermione was stopped in front of a door. “And the first floor?”

 

“Well, part of it is just the top half of the grand ballroom on the ground floor,” she explained. “I'm sure you've seen the gallery wrapped around it? The rest of it is the libraries.”

 

“Libraries?” Hermione perked a bit.

 

Narcissa smiled, laughing softly. “Yes. The Malfoy family has made it their mission to amass as much knowledge in one place as possible. If we have time today, perhaps I can prevail upon Draco to show it to you.”

 

“That would be grand,” the younger witch breathed, practically salivating at the thought. She blinked at the door they were in front of, and realized they'd been stopped there for almost a minute. “Where is this?” she asked, touching the door. It was carved, she realized – all of the doors in this hallway were. A tree took center stage, the roots wrapped around an apple. “The tree of life?”

 

“The tree of knowledge,” Narcissa corrected, softly. She touched the doorknob, and the door swung open.

 

Inside, a vast bedroom greeted her. Hermione stepped in slowly, turning a bit as she went.

 

There were no portraits on the walls, but instead there was a lovely painting of the Malfoy's lake, surrounded by trees, as though painted from the view of the gazebo. A unicorn drank from the lake, and then Hermione startled a bit when it raised its head, looking at her, before turning and disappearing into the woods. She stepped towards the portrait, searching for that hint of white in the dark green, but saw nothing. “I didn't realize you could enchant pictures of animals,” she said, softly.

 

“It's a rarer skill,” Narcissa murmured. “Of course, anyone can make a picture move with a simple charm, but capturing the essence of a unicorn requires the kind of skill that the world has not seen in over two centuries. This painting is very old.”

 

Hermione turned away from it reluctantly to take in the rest of the room.

 

The massive window – which overlooked the front gardens and the driveway – was rimmed by dark blue curtains hung on a silver rod which had been shaped like a twisting vine. The window itself had a seat built into it, and some shelves built beneath the seat that were already holding an array of books.

 

Then, there was the bed, which was larger than the one in her own flat, a four-poster also hung with dark blue curtains. There was a desk, another bookshelf, and a small table within the room – all the furniture was crafted out of a dark, gleaming wood. The rugs laid beneath each piece echoed the dark blue design of the room, and the tree-vine-apple motif was present all over the room – carved into the wood, woven into the rugs.

 

Curiously, Hermione investigated the three doors in the room. One led to a washroom, which boasted a massive tub that she could probably drown in, a sink, a vanity, and a toilet. Unlike the dark colors of the bedroom, everything here was gleaming red-and-white marble. The second door she tried led to another room, and she peered in, blinking.

 

“That's a play-room,” Narcissa explained, as Hermione stepped in. As she glanced around, Narcissa admitted, wryly, “Although it hasn't been used as such in years, as you can see.”

 

The room held two desks, facing each other, and the walls had bookshelves built right into them. Some chests that doubled as benches were set beneath the large window, also facing the front drive. She presumed the chests held toys of some sort. A rocking horse, a children's ride-able train, and some other unused toys were shoved into a far corner, long forgotten.

 

A table had been set up on the side of the room that held a cauldron and some other potions paraphernalia. Hermione stared at it, realizing how utterly out of place it was.

 

“That would be Draco's,” Narcissa said. “He does enjoy his little projects.”

 

“Wait, so is that his room?” Hermione asked, pointing back at the Tree of Knowledge suite.

 

Narcissa shook his head, and indicated another door leading into the playroom – one of three, Hermione realized. The third one led out into the main hallway. “No, his room is through that door, opposite.”

 

“So whose room is this?”

 

Narcissa turned to glide back in, opening the third door that Hermione hadn't reached yet, revealing a large wardrobe. It was already stuffed with clothes, shoes, and jewelry, and Hermione was almost afraid to step in. Wouldn't the witch that all this stuff belonged to want her privacy?

 

She frowned as a hint of red caught her eye, and slowly realized that most of the clothes were done up in warm colors. Stepping forward, she grabbed the red dress and pulled it out, recognizing it as a _duplicate_ of the one Narcissa had already bought her. Blinking, she began looking through the other clothes. All of them duplicates. All of them still with their tags on. All of them identical to the ones hanging in her flat that Narcissa had bought on that shopping trip.

 

Hermione slowly turned to face Narcissa, who looked, amazingly, a little uncertain of herself. Her smile was a little shy, and she shrugged a bit, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just in case you should find yourself in need of a place to sleep all of a sudden,” she murmured. “If you couldn't make it back to your flat, for instance, I'd want to make sure you were comfortable.”

 

Comfortable.

 

 _Comfortable_ , Hermione thought, staring at the clothes again. The woman had gone and bought duplicates of all those clothes, expensive as they'd already been, just in case Hermione ever decided she needed to sleep here.

 

“I... I don't know what to-- wow,” she finally managed. “This must have cost a fortune, buying all these again.”

 

“Oh, it's nothing,” Narcissa said, dismissively. “Either way, if you'd like to change for breakfast, there is that lovely soft yellow dress.” Her eyes went to it, and Hermione slowly put her hand on the material of it. “I'll give you some privacy.” She turned, heading back out into the hallway.

 

Hermione slowly re-entered the bedroom, staring around. This was meant to be _hers_. This room, with all its books, and the rather obvious motif.

 

And that bathroom, which was utterly glorious. Ginny would have a fit over that bathtub.

 

She didn't know how to really process this in tandem with Blaise's accusations. If it was true that someone had tampered with her matchmaking results, this seemed as good an indication as any that Narcissa was unaware of it. The woman seemed genuinely interested in welcoming Hermione into her family.

 

If she hadn't looked so uncertain of herself in that moment – so like Draco, Hermione realized, when he was feeling vulnerable – then Hermione might have been suspicious of her motives.

 

Making sure the door to the playroom was closed, Hermione changed. She folded up her jeans and t-shirt and went to leave it on the table, but couldn't. Then she tried to leave it on the bed, and couldn't. Nothing in this room looked right, having her ratty old jeans on it. Eventually, she put them on the floor of the bathroom, for lack of a better place, and rejoined Narcissa in the hallway.

 

The woman lit up with a brilliant smile when she saw Hermione. “Oh, you look lovely, darling. And I do adore those flat shoes. Aren't they so much more comfortable than being propped up on your toes? Ah, but we must look ravishing for the men, I suppose.”

 

She started down the hallway, heading back downstairs, while Hermione followed in stunned silence.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Lucius and Draco were already at the dining table when they arrived, although both stood promptly when they entered. The chairs had been gathered at one end of the table, which Hermione was glad of; she couldn't imagine trying to have a conversation over fifteen straight feet of table. The Malfoy men moved in tandem to pull their chairs out, and Hermione found herself sitting carefully as Draco moved her chair in beneath her.

 

“I like that dress,” he murmured as he stooped mid-push. Then he was sitting himself down beside her, arranging his napkin on his lap.

 

Hermione followed suit, feeling rather odd. It was _weird_ to be having _breakfast_ in an ornate dining room in full formal wear. That wasn't just her. She was pretty sure nobody else in the _world_ did this.

 

She was expecting some plates to appear in the middle of the table for them all to pick food off, like Hogwarts, and was thus surprised to see a tiny little hand appear at her side, carrying a covered plate. She leaned back to let the elf place it carefully in front of her, and silverware suddenly popped into existence on either side. The lids lifted free of all their plates and floated gently into the hands of the four elves, and then they were gone.

 

Hermione looked down at her plate. It had a croissant, a little pot of jam, and half a grapefruit, already divided into sections. She glanced at Draco's and saw porridge with brown sugar already strewn on top and rapidly melting, as well as some sausage. Narcissa had eggs and beans with a grilled tomato.

 

And Lucius had a waffle with powdered sugar on it, which for some reason became the most hilarious thing Hermione had _ever_ seen. She promptly bit down on her cheek to keep from laughing, and tasted blood before the danger of giggling fully passed by. Glancing at Draco again, she gingerly lifted her hand to pick up a fork, spearing a piece of grapefruit on it. “Did you--?”

 

“Obviously,” he said, amused.

 

She watched Lucius pour some syrup onto his waffle with all the gravity of a priest performing benediction, and had to put her hand over her mouth as she snorted. Three blonde heads looked up to survey her, and she flushed.

 

Lucius' eyes were narrowed, somehow sensing that he – once again – was the subject of Hermione's amusement. “Did you think of a funny story, Hermione?” he drawled.

 

“No,” she squeaked, chewing on the insides of her lips to keep from smiling.

 

“You seem awfully amused.”

 

She shook her head, her curls bouncing a bit. “Nope,” she said, in an even higher-pitched squeak.

 

“Are you certain?” he pressed, his eyes narrowed into slits. He cut off a piece of his waffle and put it into his mouth, and ended up with powdered sugar on his upper lip.

 

Hermione burst into laughter, turning away from all of them as she struggled to get ahold of herself.

 

“What...?” Draco mused.

 

Then she heard Narcissa: “Dear, your lip...”

 

Slowly, Draco began to join her in her laughter. Hermione turned back to them to see that Lucius was already lowering his napkin, his eyes still set in unamused slits. The powdered sugar was gone. Hermione still had her hand to her mouth, and managed to calm herself, even after seeing Narcissa's tiny, half-smothered smile.

 

“You think it's funny that my father enjoys a waffle, do you?” Draco asked. Behind him, Lucius rolled his eyes a bit as Hermione nodded. “What'd you think he ate for breakfast?”

 

“I _assumed_ he woke up every morning and feasted on the souls of innocent children.”

 

“Fair enough,” Draco conceded.

 

“I fail to see _how_ that is 'fair enough,'” Lucius muttered, taking another bite of his waffle. Narcissa's smile briefly widened, and she covered it by dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. Lucius shot her a narrow look, reeking of betrayal.

 

Draco took a bite of his porridge. “I'm just saying, I can see that,” he said, innocently. “That's standard fare for Malfoys as they get older, I'm given to understand,” he added, to Hermione. “That's how we stay looking so youthful.”

 

“I knew there was _some_ thing.”

 

“The rest of this breakfast will be conducted in silence, or it will be spent discussing the morning's news,” Lucius decreed, frostily.

 

Silence reigned for a moment as they ate. Hermione broke apart her croissant and spread some jam on it. “Did you hear about the new waffle house they opened in Diagon Alley?” she asked Draco, innocently. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lucius pause mid-bite, and his eyes narrow at her.

 

Draco looked up, his face betraying _nothing_ but polite interest. “Did they? I can't imagine they built it on an empty lot. Did they replace something?”

 

“I believe so. What was next to the children's bookshop, before, again?”

 

Draco snapped his fingers, eyebrows shooting up as if he'd just remembered. “The soul-harvesting mill!”

 

“Oh, _that's_ it,” Hermione said.

 

Narcissa erupted into giggles, even after she'd clapped her hand over her mouth. Lucius was glaring daggers at the both of them, the fork raised halfway to his mouth with a piece of syrup-sodden waffle on it. His wife managed to get herself under control, _barely_ , turning away to dab at her eyes with her napkin before her make-up ran.

 

Draco and Hermione focused on eating their breakfast, looking _all_ too innocent until the smiles started sneaking back onto their faces.

 

Lucius continued to eat his breakfast with a sense of stony, leonine pride, but he refused to partake in any further conversation. It wasn't long before Narcissa turned the conversation towards the wedding. “I was thinking that we could have an intimate ceremony at the gazebo,” she said, earning a shocked look from Hermione that she ignored as she ate. “The reception we can have between the ballroom and the gardens. I thought perhaps we could allow just one associate from the _Prophet_ there?” she asked, softly, pausing a bit in eating her food. She was worried about the answer, Hermione realized.

 

Blinking a bit, Hermione looked between Draco and his mother. “Sure,” she managed, still stunned. “That would be fine, of course.”

 

Narcissa smiled, relaxing a bit.

 

“I thought there was going to be four hundred people at the ceremony?” Hermione finally inquired, softly.

 

“Nonsense, if they crowd the place, you shan't be able to hear your vows,” she dismissed, as though it were _entirely_ her idea to downgrade the size of the wedding. Hermione wondered when Draco had managed to talk to her. Probably when he was still hanging around her flat. “The party afterwards will more than make up for it.”

 

“And the ceremony itself...” Hermione paused, not sure how to bring up the horse.

 

Narcissa looked completely unaffected and perfectly serene. “Well, I think you'll look lovely exiting from a horse-drawn carriage at the end of the aisle. Do you like that idea?”

 

Hermione's eyes shot to Lucius, who was still ignoring her over the waffle thing. “That sounds lovely,” she agreed, smiling warmly with gratitude.

 

The other woman returned the smile, relaxing the rest of the way.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After breakfast, Narcissa brought Hermione back to the ballroom to meet her mother as she Flooed in, and the rest of the morning was spent agonizing over more details, since the wedding plans had suddenly changed a bit. Her mother's excitement was more contagious this time, now that Hermione wasn't drowning in dread, and she found herself with more opinions about the décor and the dresses, to Narcissa's delight.

 

The planning swept right through lunch and then tea, where Lucius made a pained appearance as he tried not to look ready to snap as the two older women chattered. Hermione edged a bit closer to him, lowering her voice. “Where's Draco?”

 

“I don't know,” Lucius murmured. “But he will regret being there.”

 

She snickered a bit. “Narcissa was showing me around earlier and mentioned the library. How big would you say it is?” she asked. “Say, if you were to compare it to your ballroom.”

 

He thought for a moment. “I suppose in area, it would be approximate to the ballroom. However, it is only one floor in height, and it is divided into eleven rooms.” At her questioning look, he explained, “It was once one large room, but the collection exceeded the limitations of the space, and what used to be outlying studies were converted into further libraries. Those areas are further organized by the type of book.”

 

Good God, she was going to pass out. “And I can read those ones?”

 

“Any of the ones that are not in glass cases,” he said, slowly. “Those should not be removed from their bindings without myself present.”

 

“Would you ever let me take them out, even with you there?”

 

“That is unlikely.”

 

She wrinkled her nose. “Are you still mad about the waffles?”

 

He blinked serenely. “Perhaps I will feel inclined to share ancient, long-lost knowledge with persons who provide me the proper respect,” he said, in an arch tone.

 

“There is not a person alive _on this planet_ who wouldn't laugh themselves sick over you eating a waffle,” Hermione promised.

 

“Then I suppose the books in the glass cases will be _forever_ locked away.”

 

“Spoilsport.”

 

“Know-it-all,” he shot back, from the corner of his mouth, because Narcissa was glancing at them and wouldn't approve of him shooting insults.

 

Hermione grinned as Narcissa cut in, asking her another wedding-related question. Shortly after, Lucius excused himself, leaving the women to their planning. As three o'clock came and went, Hermione felt herself growing bored and restless, her attention wandering away from her mother and Narcissa. Propping her chin on her hand, she glanced around the small tea room, and saw Draco peeking around the door. He gestured at her to come out before ducking out of sight, and she straightened a bit, looking at her mother and Narcissa.

 

“Um... I have to go to the loo,” she announced.

 

Rose glanced up. “Sure, honey,” she said, warmly. “You did drink an awful lot of tea. Did you like the orange accents?”

 

“Yes,” Hermione said, having _no_ idea what her mother was talking about. She stood and added, “I'll be back shortly.” Then she walked calmly out the door, where Draco was grinning. She followed him down the hallway.

 

He murmured, “You couldn't think of anything better than the loo?”

 

“Oh, shut up, what else was I going to say?”

 

“I thought you were the mastermind of the Golden Trio,” he said, with faux surprise. She slapped his shoulder, and he laughed, leading her up the stairs. They turned away from the direction of the ballroom at the first floor landing, and she perked. “Father said you were asking after the library. After he nearly hexed me for letting him deal with you ladies by himself, of course.”

 

Hermione made a _tsk_ noise. “He is such a baby. Now I see where you get it from.”

 

“If you call me names, I'm going to _lock you out_ of here,” he said, pausing before the double doors. She tried to push past him, but he held them together, blocking her out. When she pouted at him, he smiled, looking expectant.

 

“What?”

 

“There's a password.”

 

“I'm _not_ calling you handsome.”

 

“It's not that kind of password,” he said, and his eyes flicked down to her mouth. Hermione stifled a smile, and then laughed, feeling her face heat. She was reminded of that moment on the broom, months prior, when he'd asked her for a kiss. He looked like that, now. Shy and excited.

 

Closing the distance between them, she pushed up onto her toes, her lips stopping just short of his. She whispered, “Open sesame.”

 

He groaned. “You--”

 

She laughed and leaned into him, closing the distance and pressing her lips to his. He relaxed into it, and she let it go on for a moment longer before pulling back. “Open the door, you prat.”

 

Smiling stupidly, he stepped back, letting the doors swing open.

 

All amusement left her as she stepped in, her face going slack as she turned, looking up at all the shelves. There were masses of them, some of them bunched together so that no one could walk between them, even. “How do you get to the books?” she asked, softly.

 

Draco pulled out his wand, and pointed it at the bookshelves. With a bit of a flick, they shifted apart, crowding other ones.

 

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. Then she smiled. “This is _amazing_. I can't believe you have this in your _house_. Do you have any idea how _lucky_ you are?” she demanded, turning to stare at the shelves lining the walls from ceiling to floor.

 

“I'm getting an idea,” Draco murmured, but he was watching her, a soft smile on his face like when he'd watched her play with Albus.

 

She caught his look, and flushed, then turned away to examine the books on the currently-opened shelves. For the next hour, Draco was remarkably patient as she ooh'd and aah'd and exclaimed over what seemed like every single book in the entire library. She explored the outer rooms just as thoroughly, although the covetous look she shot the glass cases made him feel a little nervous. He knew how his father felt about those ones.

 

“I could live here. I could really live here,” Hermione was gushing, flipping through a book.

 

Draco was silent a beat. “Why don't you?”

 

She blinked at him, and laughed, taking it for a joke.

 

But he pressed, “Seriously.”

 

Hermione hesitated, not looking up from the book. She didn't want to have to see his face. “Maybe someday,” she said, quietly.

 

“Gin-- the Weaselette,” he quickly corrected, and Hermione shot him an amused look that he ignored. “Told me that newly-weds in the Muggle world have a tradition where they 'christen' every room in the house--”

 

She gasped. “Oh, my God! That's it, I'm _banning_ you from her!”

 

His smirk spread, devilish. “By shagging against every flat surface in _every room_ \--”

 

“We'd _die_ before we accomplished that in this overgrown castle.”

 

He shrugged. “Sounds like a good way to go, to me.” When she turned to swat at his chest, he caught her hand, and snuck another kiss on her. She let this one linger, until she smiled too wide and it broke. “She also told me about a place called Stonehenge.”

 

Hermione blinked up at him, frowning a bit in confusion. “What, the tourist attraction?”

 

He nodded. “I want to go.”

 

She frowned. “We can't Apparate. There are too many people around.”

 

“Doesn't the underground train go?”

 

“No, we'd have to drive,” she said, thoughtfully. “I don't have a car, though.” Draco seemed to be waiting for something. She watched him as she slowly said, “I suppose I could borrow my parents'--”

 

“Sounds great,” he said, promptly.

 

Hermione stared at him. Something wasn't adding up, here. Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to go to Stonehenge?”

 

“Why wouldn't I?” he defended, innocently.

 

“Furthermore, why would Ginny be telling you about tourist attractions?” Hermione pressed. No, this didn't add up at all.

 

“I was _curious_ about things that we could do together,” he said.

 

Hermione eyed him for a moment, then made a show of thinking as she 'recalled' something. “Oh, I think my parents are going to visit my aunt this next weekend. Oh well, I think there's actually a bus--”

 

“We can move it to the following weekend.”

 

She put her hands on her hips. “You want to ride in a car,” she accused. When Draco hesitated before responding, she scoffed. “You're a little sneak, you know that? Besides, if you wanted to ride in a car, why not just ask me? Then we wouldn't have to drive for an _hour and a half_ to some stones.”

 

He was silent a beat. “So you'll drive me somewhere, then?”

 

“You're an absolute lunatic,” she assured him, starting to laugh. “I can't believe-- you had such an _intricate plan_ just to ride in a _car_. How many tourist attractions did you make her list off before you found one that the train couldn't reach?”

 

“Lost count,” he mumbled.

 

“Absolutely mad,” she declared, laughing harder. “I can drive you to the movie theater by my parent's house tomorrow night.”

 

He smiled, fidgeting a bit in excitement. “We _could_ go now.”

 

“I have to help plan the wedding. By the way, aren't _you_ supposed to help with that, too?” she reminded him, and his smile fell right off his face.

 

“Don't make me go in there with them.”

 

“If _I_ have to go, I'm taking you down with me,” she decided, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the library. He dug his heels in for a bit, whining, but she was relentless. Soon, they'd rejoined the two older women in the tea room, and he was subjected to two hours of looking at cravats as they debated which ones would and would not make his chin look fat.

 


	31. Driver's Ed

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-One: Driver's Ed**

 

…

 

The car jerked forward violently, and Hermione screamed as she was thrown forward, bracing her hands on the dashboard. “Gently, I said! Gently!” The car jerked again, and she shrieked as it seemed like they were about to hit the _only other car in the entire parking lot_. “Just tap it!”

 

“I am tapping!” Draco defended, his grip on the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white. The car jerked again.

 

“ _Gently_!”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He'd met her at work, and they'd Flooed to her parents' house. Draco was endlessly polite to Rose and David, which of course had Rose swooning. David looked a bit harder to win over, but loosened up enough to shake his hand. Then Hermione had led him to the garage, where the car sat, looking fairly innocuous while it was at a standstill.

 

She slid into the driver's seat. Draco took a few extra seconds to figure out how to navigate the handle, and then a few more to awkwardly fold himself into the vehicle and on the seat.

 

He closed the door, too softly. She could hear that it hadn't quite latched, and nodded towards it. “You'll have to open that and close it harder,” she said, pointing. He did so, and she added, “Put on your seatbelt.”

 

Draco stared at her blankly.

 

Hermione huffed a soft laugh and leaned over, grabbing the belt from the far side of him and pulling it across his chest and lap. “This keeps you safe in case we hit something,” she said. His eyes widened, and she added, “Which we very likely won't. But in case we _did_ , that would keep you from flying through the window and dying.”

 

Looking nervous, he pulled on it. When it gave way to his pulling rather easily, he shot her a look of pure alarm. “It's not holding me in place.”

 

“If I hit the brakes, it will,” she promised.

 

She pulled out onto the street, and Draco's short-lived anxiety quickly gave way to marveling openly as the car ate up the distance between her parents' house and the cinema. “It's as fast as a broom,” he murmured, pushing his head against the window to watch the ground race past. Then he looked at her as she glanced boredly from left to right before pulling into another street. “Except I can tell it's not a broom because you're not going insane from fright.”

 

“Oh, was _that_ the only indication that you're not on a broom?”

 

He smiled. “I want to drive.”

 

“No. No way,” she denied, promptly, and his smile faded into a confused scowl. She explained, “You have to _learn_ how to drive these things. It can be really easy to have an accident if you don't know how to do it properly. Usually, Muggles have to go to special teachers to learn, and you need a special license, like when you learn to Apparate.”

 

“So teach me. I learn things _very_ quickly,” he assured her, confidently.

 

“Draco, no.”

 

“I want to learn. Why are you denying me the pleasure of learning?” he tried, and she shot him a tired look. He grimaced a bit when that gambit didn't work, but plowed on. “I'll move very slowly. I won't hit anything.”

 

“Draco...”

 

“Please?” _That_ caught her off-guard. She didn't think she'd ever heard him ask for something like that. He always just wheedled and whined until he got what he want. She shot him a look, cursing mentally when she saw how innocent and aggrieved he managed to look just by drawing his eyebrows together and sticking his lower lip out a bit. If he'd been born a Muggle, he'd probably be in Hollywood right now, making romantic dramas and inspiring young girls to scratch _Mrs. Draco Malfoy_ on their pencil boxes.

 

Sighing miserably, she pulled into a nearly empty parking lot. “Just for half an hour, then _I_ drive us to the film.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Which was why she was here, screaming and begging for her life as she braced her hands desperately on the dashboard. Draco was still moving the car in violent stops and jerks, and the few times he didn't jerk the car around, he bolted forward so quickly he almost hit a lamp post, and had just barely slammed on the brakes in time.

 

“Put it in park! Get out of that seat!” she demanded, shrilly.

 

“No! I'm getting better,” he promised, weaving jaggedly around the lot. “I didn't realize how softly you had to put your foot down.”

 

“I _said_ gently!”

 

“Well, that's not exactly a _universal descriptor_ , is it?” he snapped, defensively. He executed a fairly mild turn at about ten miles per hour, and brightened. “See? I am getting better.”

 

“Oh, God,” she said, feeling nauseous as they drove around in circles. “Alright, it's been thirty minutes, so come to a _slow stop_ \--” He hit the brakes, and she slammed forward again. Thankfully, the seatbelt caught her before she could _break her nose_ on the dashboard. She choked a bit as it dug into her neck. “Damn it, Draco!”

 

“That was fun,” he said, looking exuberant. She quickly put the car in park while his foot was on the brakes. “When can we do it again?”

 

She opened the door, sliding out as she muttered, “Thursday after _never_.”

 

“What?” he called after her.

 

She rounded the car and opened the door, leaning in to undo his seatbelt. “Nearly killed us,” she muttered, pulling the seatbelt off him. Then she ordered, “Get up.”

 

“When?” he pressed, getting out of the car. “You said Thursday?”

 

“Get into the passenger's seat before I _hex you_.”

 

“Thursday, though?”

 

“Draco!”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The brief experience of driving the car left him antsy and excited throughout the rest of the trip to the cinema, and through the lobby, and through the process of buying snacks. Which, Hermione realized, was a mistake, because Draco didn't recognize any of the candy and was taking far too long to pick one.

 

He was looking at the case of candy, while the frustrated attendant sat on the other side, glaring at him. He pointed at a candy. “What's that?”

 

“Twizzlers,” the lady growled.

 

Draco frowned. “And that one?”

 

“ _Skittles_.”

 

“Are those good?” he asked Hermione, while the lady behind the counter stared at him, shocked that a grown man hadn't ever had _Skittles_.

 

“They're fruity,” she said, shrugging. “Come on, Draco, or we'll miss the start.”

 

“I can't decide. Let's get all of them and I'll try them,” he determined, missing the way both Hermione and the attendant's eyes bugged out of their heads.

 

“No!” Hermione hissed. “Do you know how expensive cinema candy is?”

 

Draco gave her a _look_. “I will give you a sack full of Galleons when we get back home, then,” he huffed, softly, leaning in a bit to keep the conversation private. “It's not like I don't _have_ money.”

 

“That's utterly--”

 

“We'll take one of each,” Draco announced, pointing at the candy case. He put his hands back in his pockets, waiting expectantly for the woman to start gathering them up. When she didn't move right away, he raised his eyebrows at her, glaring at her until she did.

 

Five minutes later, Draco was sitting in a pile of crackling candy bags, fussing about with one of them as he tried to get it open. Hermione was leaning heavily on the arm of the chair, her hand pressed to her eyes and forehead as she tried to ignore the feel of ten thousand stares centering on the two of them. She heard Draco succeed in getting one open with a self-satisfied sigh. A second later, he said, “Bleuch.”

 

She heard the still-full bag of candy hit the ground and raised her head to stare at him incredulously. He was already working on the next bag. “The _floor_ is not a discard pile,” she hissed.

 

“I thought they had laborers here to clean up,” he said, shrugging. He put a chocolate covered raisin in his mouth, and made a considering face as he chewed. “This one isn't bad.” He lifted the bag to inspect the name more carefully. “They should sell these on the Express to school.”

 

Hermione glanced around, and saw that everyone around them had turned to stare at the spectacle that was her boyfriend.

 

She slouched in her seat, turning bright red. She sighed in relief as the theater finally went dark.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco was probably most astonished by the coming attractions. He fumbled with the bags of candy as he watched them. “I can't understand what the story is,” he muttered, and she explained that they weren't stories, but advertisements for upcoming films. He started watching them pretty seriously, after that, pointing out the ones he wanted to see with her.

 

Then _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ properly started, and for all that hullabaloo about the candy, Draco _completely_ stopped eating them as he got lost in the film.

 

She had to admit to herself that it was a good film choice for Draco. She hadn't really intended for it to be, but it took place in an indeterminate time period in London, contained mostly fanciful nonsense that required little explanation for a wizard, and had a relatively straightforward plot.

 

When it was over, he gathered up his candy (dropping the ones he'd tried and disliked on the floor, despite her protests) and carried an armful of the stuff out of the theater as they walked back to the car.

 

“I liked that one,” he said. “Is it based on a real candy factory?”

 

“No,” Hermione said, laughing softly. He just looked so ridiculous, carrying all that candy like it was a precious candy baby. “But there is a producer that makes candies based on the film and the book. They're not that great, though.”

 

When he got in the car, he started opening up the other candy bags. Hermione sat and stared at him for a second, and finally started laughing.

 

“What?” he demanded, biting into a Twizzler.

 

She shook her head, because how could she even _begin_ to explain? Instead, she started the car, and drove back to her parents' house, listening to him grade all the candy on a scale of _bleuch_ to _hmmm_. When they parked, he got out with the three or four candy bags he'd deemed to be acceptable, leaving three on the floor of her Dad's car.

 

“Draco, pick those up,” she said, pointing at them.

 

He leaned down to make a bit of a face. “See, this is why Muggles should have elves. Why must we constantly stoop to doing such menial--”

 

Hermione casually pulled out her wand and laid it on the divider between the seats, glaring at him with half-lidded eyes. He glanced between her wand and her face, and scowled as he leaned down to gather up his trash. She kept the threat out until it was all picked up, then collected her wand with a bright smile and a cheery, “ _Thank_ you!” as she got out of the car.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It was on Thursday when she had an opportunity to try and further her investigation. She heard one of her coworkers mention that she had to walk clear across the Ministry to deliver papers to the secretary of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Hermione perked as she complained about the long walk, whinging that she would be late to meet her friend for lunch.

 

“Ellen,” Hermione said, standing as the woman headed past her cubicle. She smiled, softly. “Sorry, I overheard. I'm actually going over to the DMLE.” Right next to the Chief Warlock's offices. “Want me to just drop it off on my way?”

 

The woman – a thirty-something year old with a cute face and dirty blonde hair – blinked at her. While they didn't _not get along_ , usually Hermione and Ellen both found that they had little to say to each other, and talked seldom. Never once had Hermione gone out of her way to help the woman out, nor had Ellen done the same for her.

 

So, this was unprecedented.

 

“Are you sure?” Ellen asked, frowning a bit, wondering why Hermione was being so uncharacteristically _nice_.

 

“It's really not a problem,” Hermione assured her, smiling and holding out her hand.

 

Blinking a bit, Ellen finally shrugged a bit and placed the folded lengths of parchment in Hermione's arms. “Well, thank you,” she said, softening up enough to offer the younger woman a kind smile. “I really appreciate it. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you out with anything.”

 

“Sure,” Hermione agreed.

  
As she walked away, she resisted the urge to pump her fists in victory. For days, she'd wondered just how she was going to broach the topic of Lucius Malfoy's donation to the courtrooms. Now she had a reason to at least walk into the _office_ , which was half the battle.

 

Now she just needed a good opening line.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Or a secretary that wasn't _Percy Weasley_.

 

Hermione almost groaned when she realized it was him. What was he _doing_ here? The last she'd heard, he was lobbying to become assistant head of the Department of Transportation. Forcing a smile on her face, she walked towards him. “Hi, Percy. I didn't realize you'd been given this job. I thought you were going into Transportation?”

 

Percy smiled a bit when he saw her. “Hello, Hermione,” he said, pleasantly. As much as he wanted to be in charge, Hermione had to admit that he really looked at his happiest when shuffling paperwork around for actual leaders. “And this is just a way-stop. I have to put in my time underneath the best wizards in order to become Department Head, you know. If I do a good job, I'm sure to get a recommendation for the position.”

 

Just like Percy.

 

Hermione stifled a bit of a smile. As much as Percy was a bit of a ponce and a prat, she'd never really considered him to be a _bad guy_ , even when he'd defected a bit. He was just a simple man, who preferred the order and sanctuary of rules and regulations. When he saw a position that he wanted, he took the exact steps he needed to take to get it. There was no whining about how he deserved it without having to prove himself, no trying to get ahead by unjust means.

 

She could really appreciate that in a person. “Well, I'm here with a delivery for your boss,” she said, holding out the stack of parchments. “Some appeals he has to look through for Magical Creatures. Although I've no idea where they do such things these days, with all the courtrooms being under construction.”

 

Percy groaned, rolling his eyes a bit. “It really is a mess, isn't it? I _told_ them, they should do it in _sections_ so we could still use _some_ of them, but they wanted to get it done before the money got re-allocated.”

 

“It was a lot, wasn't it?”

 

“More than enough to re-do the rooms,” he said, nodding. “It was only a matter of time before someone realized that and tried to push it into another pocket.”

 

“Would that be so bad, though?” she wondered, frowning. “Why not put it where it's needed, if there's plenty?”

 

He shrugged. “I'm given to understand that the donation was given rather _specifically_ ,” he said, with a huff. “The person donating really wanted it to go to this purpose. Although, I don't think that should be strictly allowed for such massive amounts, unless there's already a built-in donation pool for a certain cause. But once you reach the threshold of that pool, the money should be put where it can be best utilized,” he said, primly.

 

“That really does make the most sense,” she agreed. “Besides, why would anyone be so concerned with making sure the courtrooms look so nice? It's not like the rest of the Ministry can't use the repairs or an update.”

 

“Who knows.” He shuffled the papers she'd given him. “Sometimes people can be touchy about their money.”

 

Or they're returning favors, she thought. The question was, what did the Chief Warlock or the courtrooms have to do with Rastian Howles, the head of the Matchmakers? As far as she knew, the man wasn't at all affiliated with the goings-on of Wizengamot. Hermione eyed the man before her, wondering if she should bother continuing to ask questions. She didn't think she'd get anything else useful out of Percy. The man was a little too black-and-white. “Do you know who it is?” she wondered.

 

Percy shook his head, with another shrug.

 

“Well, see you,” she said, turning away. No use trying to plumb him for information. That well was _dry_. Even though all donations were public record, he clearly didn't care enough to look it up, so he wouldn't know much of anything else. And she doubted the Chief Warlock shared much in the way of secrets with him.

 

She'd have to go at this from another angle. The trouble was, she didn't know which one.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“ _Hermione_.” A pea bounced off her face, and she startled, eyes flying to Harry. She'd been so busy thinking about how else to approach her little investigation, she hadn't heard a word he'd said for the past two to five minutes. “Hello? Earth to _Hermione_.”

 

“Sorry, I'm paying attention,” she said, hastily. “What?”

 

He gave her a weird look. “What are you working on, these days? I have never seen you look this spacey before.”

 

“Oh, just the usual,” she said, evasively. “So, what were you saying?”

 

Harry had frowned at her dismissive answer, and was silent a beat as he considered her, his green eyes roving over her face and looking for the slightest hint of anything amiss. She affected her best pokerface, eyebrows raising a bit. “No, something's going on,” he finally said, and she stifled an instinctive response to wrinkle her nose and insist otherwise. That was her usual tell. “What is it?”

 

“There's a lot of things going on, Harry,” she huffed. “Work's been crazy, lately.”

 

He still looked deeply suspicious. But he finally conceded her point – he knew better than anyone that her department had been quite busy as of late – and continued with what he was saying. “Alright. Anyway, Ron was asking if he should invite the Malfoys to his wedding. It's weekend after next, remember?”

 

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I had kind of assumed he wouldn't want them there.”

 

Harry nodded. “You know, me too, but I bet Susan's been wheedling at him to at _least_ invite Draco Malfoy. After all, he's going to be your husband, so it's not like Ron can pretend he doesn't exist _forever_. The real question is whether or not he should invite Malfoy's parents.”

 

After a beat, she shook her head, slowly. “I can't imagine that'd be necessary. I'm also not sure they'd want to go. Besides, if it got awkward with Arthur and Molly...”

 

He nodded, again. “I figured as much. I'll let him know. I think Susan just wanted to make sure she wasn't rude. You think Malfoy should get his own invitation so he can plus-one someone, if he wants? I figured he'd be your plus-one, but he might feel ill at ease without one of his own friends.”

 

Hermione swallowed a grimace. “Give him an invite,” she decided. “But no plus-one. I don't think I want his friends there, to be honest.”

 

“What, not even Blaise? I thought you got on with him, now.”

 

She hesitated, for a beat too long.

 

Sensing it, Harry leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Something happened with Blaise?” he pressed, his gaze boring into her face.

 

“Put your inner Auror away before I punch him in the face,” Hermione said, in a crisp tone. “I just don't want to see him, right now. He annoyed me the last time we talked. And I'm certain I will end up having a Mortal Kombat-style altercation with Pansy if _she_ comes.”

 

“How'd he annoy you? Blaise,” Harry clarified.

 

“Harry.”

 

“Hermione, will you just tell me what's going on?” he asked, a frown tugging at his lips as he sat back, crossing his arms a bit. She blinked at him, registering dimly that he looked almost _hurt_. “You never keep secrets from me. It's starting to freak me out.”

 

She opened her mouth, but didn't know what to say. Instead, she picked at her own peas with her fork, feeling troubled.

 

She hadn't _wanted_ to bring Harry in on this, because she was pretty sure one of two things was going to happen: He was going to confront Draco directly and there'd be a big blow-up, or he was going to start stalking the man and there would be an even _bigger_ blow up. Harry had a tendency to ride his hunches a bit too hard.

 

But he wasn't wrong, either. As much as she'd always preferred her own methods, she'd never been much for keeping things secret.

 

And that was one of the things she really treasured about her friendship to him.

 

“Alright,” she whispered. Harry leaned forward, almost hungrily. “But you can't breathe a word of this to anyone. Promise me.” He frowned, and she insisted, “Promise, or I won't tell you _anything_.”

 

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, looking troubled, himself. “I won't tell anyone unless you say so.”

 

After another pregnant pause, Hermione quietly launched into the whole story – going away to the spa, separating from Ginny and Susan as they had a massage, seeing Blaise at the hot springs. She kind of glossed over the parts where Blaise creepily handled her hair or tried to strong-arm her into a date (she didn't want to be responsible for whatever fight would ensue between the two wizards over _that_ ), moving straight onto Blaise's accusations that Lucius Malfoy had tampered with the Matchmakers' results.

 

Harry blinked, frowning deeply as he sat back. “Wow,” he said, putting his fork down carefully. “That's... That'd be pretty serious. Do you think he did it?”

 

“I've no idea.” Sighing, she poked at her peas and her baked fish, feeling a headache coming on “I don't even know how I'd go about _proving_ whether or not he did. It's not like there's a Registry of Morally Off-White Doings I can peruse,” she muttered. “I can't discount the notion that Blaise is just messing with me for some reasons I haven't figured out yet.”

 

“True,” Harry agreed. “He _is_ a Slytherin. What'd Malfoy say when you asked him?”

 

Hermione froze a bit, casting Harry a guilty look. Slowly, she drew her lower lip between her teeth and gnawed on it, wondering how she was going to say that she hadn't yet brought Blaise's accusations to Draco's attention.

 

“... You haven't asked him,” Harry said, his tone curiously blank. She couldn't tell if he was disappointed or surprised.

 

“How am I going to just ask him that?”

 

“With your words,” he said, promptly. “The ones we humans use to communicate complex thoughts and ideas at each other.”

 

Hermione scowled at him. “One of two things will happen: He'll lie to me about it, ruining everything, or he'll honestly have no idea and then be angry that even a part of me _believed_ Blaise, which will also ruin everything. I just want to be a little more sure of my conclusion before I go spouting random accusations at people.”

 

Huffing incredulously, Harry said, “Do you really believe that? You said it yourself, there's no way to prove or disprove it. Even if you could prove that Malfoy's father made the donation and that someone, somewhere had something to gain from it – and if that person somehow could have tampered with the results – that still proves nothing and it can always be plausibly denied. You're just delaying the inevitable by not _asking_ the bloke.”

 

“And if he denies it?”

 

“Then you'll have to decide whether or not you believe him,” Harry said, quietly. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I know, not the best answer, but... Isn't it really the only answer that matters? Whether or not it's true isn't as important as whether or not you trust him. Even if he's completely clean, if you can't bring yourself to believe _him_ without some sort of proof, then... Well, what's the point in trying to be diplomatic, really?”

 

She swallowed, painfully.

 

Because that was where it all ended up, right? Hermione didn't, at her core, trust Draco. He lied like he breathed. He changed to benefit from the current situation. He wasn't an open and honest person.

 

She wanted to trust that he was trying to be, but that left her feeling too vulnerable for her liking. And there was too long of a history of him being hurtful for her to want to open that weakness up to him – even if a part of her did believe, very quietly, that he had no desire to hurt her, anymore.

 

Harry reached across the table, putting a hand on her shoulder. He gripped her there for a moment, reassuring, and let his hand drop away with another sigh. “I know it's hard to put yourself out there, Hermione, but when you think something might be really special between you and another person, it's rather worth the risk, don't you think?”

 

She gazed into his eyes, which were looking somewhere faraway – at a distant memory, where he'd swallowed his pride and bought a guitar, and learned how to play just one song to try and prove to the girl he loved that he was utterly devoted to her.

 

Hermione wondered how many hours he'd stayed up every night, agonizing about what he'd do if she rejected him.

 

It was amazing, life. A boy could go through literal Purgatory, face off an undying enemy time and time again, _die_ and watch people he loved die all around him... and even after all that, finding the courage to bare your heart to another person, to give them the power to hurt you in ways new and unforeseen, was an almost Herculean feat.

 

The thought that Harry had found that courage when faced with the prospect of losing Ginny made her smile, the expression on her face tender as she watched him.

 

“I love you, Harry,” she said, somberly. That this _amazing person_ was beside her almost every day, helping her navigate her life, was something she didn't think she'd ever deserve, even if she devoted the rest of her life to good deeds.

 

Harry's eyes jerked back from the memory he'd been replaying in his head, focusing on hers, and then he smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled, just like they always had, and she felt a certain sense of peace. No matter what else happened between her and Draco, she could handle it as long as she had her friends by her side. She just hoped that Draco would come out the other side better for it, too.

 

“Love you, too, bossy-britches,” he murmured. His smile widened a bit. “'Til the sun burns out.”

 


	32. There's No Manual

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Two: There's No Manual**

 

…

 

The next morning, she entered the coffee shop with a renewed sense of purpose. She was going to swallow whatever anxieties she had and just ask Draco if what Blaise said had any merit. And he might lie to her, or try and weasel out of telling her something. She knew that was a strong possibility.

 

And she knew that her heart might break a little if he did.

 

And she knew, without a doubt, that even if he lied and her heart broke a little, she'd still be meeting him at the coffee shop the next day, ready to try again. It was a scary thought, and she'd spent most of the night awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she'd be able to summon the strength to do it. Then she wondered if she was just deluding herself by thinking that walking away at the first sign of trouble was the easier solution. If she walked away, she'd always wonder, and Hermione generally preferred closure.

 

Even if it hurt.

 

He smiled at her as she sat, and she smiled wanly back. She was tired from over-thinking the night before, and it showed. His smile slowly faded as he looked at her. “You look awful,” he said, blinking.

 

Her eyes narrowed. “I will never understand what goes through a person's mind when they say that to someone. What is the response you think you're going to get to that comment? 'Thanks, I know, I hope one day to awake in the fires of rebirth and become beautiful for the first time'?”

 

Draco was already laughing as she spoke, and he sipped his coffee. “Oh, false alarm. It's definitely still you. You worried me, there, for a second.” He lifted a shoulder to fend off her slap, the movement automatic, now.

 

“Prat. Where's my croissant?” she asked, looking at her coffee.

 

“They're out. They didn't get the delivery, this morning.”

 

Hermione frowned, knowing she shouldn't feel so put-out. It was just a croissant, after all. She could always just hold on until lunch. Actually, given the conversation that was coming, she wasn't sure she'd feel up for eating, anyway. Inhaling slowly, she said, “Draco...”

 

He was still smiling, and his eyebrows lifted a bit in silent question.

 

“That weekend where I left town... I went with Ginny and Susan to a resort near Somerset.” He waited, clearly not seeing where she was headed. “I went to the hot spring pool and Blaise was there.”

 

The smile dropped off his face like a lead weight. Instantly, he was more alert, his expression serious, and she saw the flickers of anger touch the corners of his expression before he willed himself to look more normal. “Was he,” he murmured, his tone making it sound nothing like a question.

 

“Yes,” she said, swallowing. “We spoke.” Her eyes flicked up to him, and she chewed on the inside of her cheek a bit. “Is there anything he'd say that you think I should know about?”

 

Guarded, Draco sipped his coffee. “I think you should know,” he said, slowly. “That Blaise will say _anything_ to achieve whatever his ends are. And he doesn't care if they're lies.”

 

“Do _you_ care if _you_ lie?”

 

“I care if I lie to _you_ ,” he said, quietly. At her frown, he added, looking even more guarded than usual. “Because I know you place quite a bit of worth on my honesty or lack-thereof. In Slytherin, honesty is not a prized quality. Everyone lies. Nobody cares that everyone is lying.”

 

Hermione blinked. She couldn't imagine that _no one cared_ about being _lied to_. How could one know if one's friends were truly their friends?

 

Frustrated at the look on her face, Draco sighed, running a hand impatiently through his hair. “It's different than Gryffindor, Hermione, and that's really the best way to explain it. We prize other qualities in people, like how clever they are or how expertly they can affect a situation to better their own outcome. We respect those things. Lying isn't some grand moral conundrum, in the dungeons. It's just another tool.”

 

“That's terrible,” she whispered.

 

“No, it's terrible _to you_ because you place so much importance on being able to be yourself with people. You don't like hiding,” he said, gently. “Not everyone's like that. Some of us feel more comfortable with our masks.”

 

Eyebrows drawing together, she stared at her coffee, trying to imagine what it must be like to _want_ to constantly be watching everyone with suspicion. It sounded absolutely awful.

 

“And Blaise treats socializing like a game,” he said, flatly. “He doesn't care about anything except his own amusement.”

  
“I thought he was your friend,” she whispered.

 

“He is. I rather like him.” Hermione stared at him in shock, and Draco laughed, shaking his head a bit. “I wouldn't expect you to understand. But Blaise's lack of allegiances is a comfort, in a way. He can't stab you in the back if you'd never turn your back on him. Besides, he's got a good sense of humor and he's smart enough to want to talk to.”

 

Slowly, Hermione tried to rationalize that to herself. It _would_ make sense, in a weird way. “So he didn't actually fancy me at Hogwarts,” she said, feeling a strange sense of relief, warped as it was.

 

Draco hesitated, but didn't answer, sipping his coffee.

 

A frown slowly formed on her face again. “Right?” she pressed.

 

“I don't know,” he finally admitted. “He did say as much, once or twice, but with Blaise, it's hard to tell if he's being truthful or not. I honestly think he just enjoyed watching our reactions when he said it.”

 

Hermione shook her head a bit, trying to clear her thoughts. “That's weird. You all are so _weird_.”

 

He shrugged. “Maybe. But it was my home for nine months out of the year for seven years. It felt normal, to me.” He frowned a bit. “What exactly happened with him, at the pool?” he asked, his jaw setting a bit – realizing that if Blaise had told Hermione about a schoolyard crush, he had probably been doing something inappropriate.

 

She hesitated, and then said, “Wait. Back there, a minute ago, you said you cared if you lied to _me_. If you like pretending, but I don't, doesn't that--”

 

“Stop, Hermione,” he said, softly. “Stop trying to make rationalizations where there are none. I don't want to lie to you – not because I think it's morally repugnant, but because you get this awful look on your face when I do. At least, for big ones. You seem alright with tiny ones, where you notice almost immediately that I'm lying but it's over something you don't think is a big deal. Like the car ride.”

 

She folded her hands around the mug, to stop her fingers shaking. She realized that the little lies – like him pretending to want to go to Stonehenge – were not actually genuine falsehoods or ways for him to sneak around, but quite honestly the main way he _knew how to socialize_. It was a way of _bantering_ , trying to figure out each other's little lies. It was his way of having fun. And he'd probably liked that she'd picked it apart, instead of being disappointed that he'd been caught. That cast an entirely different light on all of their interactions, and now she wasn't sure if she remembered them correctly.

 

What a scary thought.

 

“What awful look on my face?” she murmured.

 

He swallowed. “Like you're scared of me,” he said, quietly. He licked his lips, looking at his coffee. “I hate that one the most.”

 

“It doesn't bother you that I want to make you do things that you aren't comfortable with? Like being yourself, or telling the truth?”

 

“No.”

 

The simplicity of his response left her head reeling. “Why?” she asked, trying desperately to understand. She thought the whole point of being in a relationship was finding someone who you _could_ be yourself with, but maybe for Draco, that was being a bunch of personas and masks. She couldn't imagine wanting to be with _him_ if he demanded such drastic changes from her.

 

Hell, the biggest concession she'd ever made to him was humoring his mother and wearing the occasional dress.

 

Draco was frowning, trying to formulate his thoughts. “It's-- I don't know,” he finally said, flushing slightly. His gaze had dropped. He knew, but he didn't want to say. She wanted to shake him. “It's hard to explain. What did Blaise say to you?” he repeated.

 

Realizing that he'd clammed up, and that was very likely the most soul-baring she was going to get out of him today, she sighed. “He said you guys tampered with the Matchmakers' results. You and your parents. That was why, even though they'd promised they'd put Ron and I together, I got you, instead. He said your father donated money to ensure it.”

 

Draco's jaw ticked, and he sipped his coffee, silent.

 

“Draco.”

 

His eyes flicked up to hers, his grey eyes stormy and troubled. Hermione jolted a bit as she realized she recognized that look on his face: She'd seen that exact one before, when they'd first sat across the conference table from each other, and she'd declared that Ron Weasley was supposed to be her match. She spent a moment trying to process the emotion she saw there, and the answer wouldn't come to her.

 

She swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. It grew like a bruise. “Did your father donate money to change my match?” she whispered.

 

He had that hounded look, and he glanced away from her, his eyes growing a little glassy. She felt the bruised feeling in her throat grow stronger when she realized that his eyes were tearing up, slightly.

 

“Draco?” she whispered again, and she felt her breath stutter. “Please.”

 

“Don't ask me this,” he begged.

 

“I have to.”

 

“You don't,” he said, a tad desperately. His eyes met hers, again, and he leaned forward. “Hermione, you were happy with me, weren't you? I'm not crazy, I know that I made you happy, when I wasn't driving you barmy. You like me. You said so.”

 

“I have to _know_ ,” she insisted.

 

“Why? Would it change everything? Would I stop being someone you liked? Would you stop being happy if you were around me?”

 

The increasing desperation of his demands made her heart hurt. “He did. That money – all that money – that was for the match?” she whispered. Draco's eyes closed, and he sat back in his chair, looking miserable. “I don't understand. Why? We hated each other, we've always hated each other.”

 

“We hated each other in _school_ , Hermione. As kids,” he corrected, shaking his head emphatically. “When I saw you at the Ministry that day, I hadn't hated you in a really long time. I had my own life, and my own preoccupations. I thought about you about as frequently as I'm sure you thought about me: Almost never. When I saw you in the paper, maybe, or when Father mentioned he'd seen you at the ministry lobbying for something he thought was silly.”

 

“So _why_?” she insisted.

 

He shook his head, again. “I don't profess to understand why my parents do the things they do,” he muttered. “Ever since the war, she's never quite been the same as she used to be. I don't know.”

 

Shock ran through her like an electric current.

 

Hermione sat back, staring at Draco with wide eyes. He seemed to realize what he'd said, and snapped his mouth shut, his jaw working slightly as he inhaled carefully.

 

It hadn't been Lucius.

 

Her mind went back to that day when she'd ran after Lucius and joined him in his study. That walk in the hallway, discussing the horse... And Lucius' words: _However, just because I do not enjoy such things doesn't mean I find it gratifying to deprive her_.

 

Lucius hadn't wanted the match at all. He'd simply made the best of what he considered to be a bad situation.

 

“Narcissa?” Hermione whispered, feeling a hollow sensation in her chest. Narcissa, the beautiful blonde woman who had seemed to exude such a strange sense of fragility. The woman who had welcomed her the most readily. The last person Hermione would have ever expected to be the one playing dice with her life.

 

She shook her head. “No, that's-- She-- No.”

 

She saw how Lucius and Draco protected her, kept her safe from ugly realities. And she realized she'd fallen in line with that, too – wanting to preserve the woman's feelings. Wanting to _make her feel better_.

 

Harry's voice echoed in her head: _I told you to be careful of the Malfoys, because you were too good. You want to protect people too much. Even at your own risk._

 

Well, she'd certainly fallen for it, hadn't she?

 

How much of that woman was an elaborate lie?

 

Draco, seeing the way Hermione's crumpled expression had resolved into something stonier, leaned forward. “Hermione, don't,” he said. “Please.”

 

“Did you have anything to do with it?” she asked. “You... you took me away from one of my _best friends._ Someone who would have loved me, without fail, for years. Someone I would have loved back. You took that _away_ from me,” she said, her voice shaking.

 

“I didn't know you had a plan with the Weasel,” Draco hissed, fear enveloping his expression at the turn the conversation had taken. “I had no idea. I _swear_ to you.”

 

She leaned back in the chair, staring at his troubled expression. She was seeing it for the third time.

 

And she suddenly recognized it, even though she hadn't been able to when they met in the conference room that day: Guilt. She'd panicked at the time, and laid clear that she'd been expecting someone else, and she'd seen _guilt_ cross Draco's face when she met his gaze at that moment. She just hadn't known what that looked like when she saw it. She'd thought it was just mutual disgust.

 

“You said we were victims together,” she said, and he flinched at the reminder. “You lied to me. Was everything fake?”

 

“No!” He earned a few stares, and hunched his shoulders, lowering his voice. “ _No_ , Hermione.”

 

She felt her curls brushing her neck and her face, and shoved them out of her face. She felt claustrophobic. “I have to think about this,” she muttered, standing.

  
He jumped to his feet, too. “Please don't.”

 

“Don't what, _think_?”

 

“ _Yes_ , don't think! Haven't you ever noticed that whenever you think, you come up with reasons for why we shouldn't be happy together?”

 

She started for the door, and he followed her doggedly. “How do you know those aren't valid thoughts?”

 

As soon as they left, he grabbed her arm, turning her back to face him. “ _I don't care if they are_. I'm _happy_ when I'm with you, and you're happy when you're with me. Why does it have to make sense, too? Not everything _does_ , Hermione! Sometimes things just _are_. They defy sense.”

 

“That's only true if both participants are absolutely _delusional_. You can't escape the fact that the only reason we're talking _right now_ is because of some law that forced us to,” she reminded him. “If that law didn't exist, you'd be married to Astoria Greengrass before the year was out, and you would probably have a perfectly idyllic life with her, with all the babies you could _ever want_.”

 

He was struggling to remain patient. “But I don't,” he said, stressing each syllable. “I'm not with Astoria. I'm with you. Who cares if a _law_ did it? I'm _glad_ that stupid law exists.”

 

She took a half-step back, staring at him in open shock at that ridiculous proclamation, and he grabbed her hand.

 

“Because I know you're right,” he added, more quietly. “We would have never crossed paths except by accident. We would have possibly exchanged a few polite words, or just some respectful nods. I'd have a wife that I would come to love or... at the very least, respect, and a child that I would devote my entire life to. You'd have ridiculously brainy children with hair that would drive even the most patient saint _mad_ with frustration, and maybe they'd be red-haired, too. And we'd be fine, and never know any better.”

 

He licked his lips, unsure of how to say the next part. “But that didn't happen, Hermione. There was a law, instead. And I thought it was going to make two people miserable. But I'm not miserable. Far from it.” He hesitated a beat, and croaked, “Are you miserable?”

 

She stared at their joined hands, not sure of how to answer.

 

“Are you?”

 

“No,” she admitted, barely audible.

 

“You said, once, that it was all the tiny little actions that won the war,” he murmured. “That each tiny thing led to that big victory. I think about that a lot, you know. How if you'd missed just one little action, the Dark Lord might have won. And I think about every little action that brought me to you, and how easily one of them could have never happened.

 

“And that scares me more than I think you'll ever know,” he whispered. “How easily that other future could have happened. How much more likely it was to happen. How unlikely it is that I'm here, right now, outside of a coffee shop, holding your hand with _my ring_ on it.” He smiled a bit, huffing a soft laugh. “Sometimes it wakes me up at night, and I have to check that I'm still wearing mine. And some days I wake up, sure that it was all just a dream and I'm waking up in the real world for the first time and you and I still haven't spoken in _years_. And I come to this coffee shop, almost certain you won't appear. And then you walk in like you always do, and I'm filled with this unspeakable amount of relief.”

 

She stared at him, aware that the noise of the street had faded away to almost nothing. She could barely even hear _him_ over the rapid-fire thudding of her heart, and she realized that she didn't know what to do with this confession. She had no auxiliary plans for this moment.

 

Her mind sought the knowledge of everything she'd ever read, and she came up empty-handed. She was flying blind, and it was terrifying.

 

“Hermione?” he asked, staring down at her with a slight frown. “Hermione, you _are_ breathing, aren't you? _Please_ don't swoon in the middle of th--”

 

She threw her arms around his neck, pressing into him as she yanked him down, meeting his lips with hers. He froze for a moment – they'd never kissed in public, both hyper-aware of the field day that the _Prophet_ would have with something like this – and then she felt him sag against her as all the tension left him in a rush. She heard a few shutter-clicks as the people around them whispered, but his hands were cradled around her head like she was the most precious thing to have ever existed, so she didn't care.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was in her cubicle, working, when she felt an unholy presence over her shoulder. She turned, slowly, and met the stares of Ginny and Susan, who were holding up Friday's _Daily Prophet_. The _front page_ was a picture of her and Draco, and the headline screamed:

 

**Marriage Law's Most Unlikely Couple Fall In Love!**

 

Hermione frowned at the headline, catching something else about how this was an 'auspicious' beginning to the hitherto unpopular law. Then her eyes were drawn to the picture. Draco was staring down at her, looking strangely open and vulnerable. She watched his eyes widen a fraction as she threw herself at him, pulling him down into a kiss. Then his eyes closed and he buried his hands in her curls.

 

Slowly, her gaze drifted from the picture to the stares of her friends.

 

“This was _so important_ that we had to come to your work,” Ginny said. “And take you away from your cubicle for a long lunch hour so that you can tell us literally everything.” She was speaking calmly, mindful of the office setting, but Hermione could see how she was practically _vibrating_ with glee.

 

“Ginny, I'm working—” she tried to protest.

 

“Hermione, listen to me,” Ginny said, sweetly. She folded up the newspaper and tucked it under her arm, crossing said arms in front of herself. “You're going to get up and come with me and Susan, and you're going to tell us every detail of every moment leading up to this _romance novel_ _title page_ kiss, or so help me, I am going to make. Such. A. Scene.”

 

Hermione's eyes narrowed, trying to gauge how willing Ginny truly was to make a scene right in her office. Ginny looked around, and inhaled deeply, as though about to start screaming, and Hermione jumped up. “Jesus, stop,” she huffed. “Okay, okay. God.”

 

Even Susan grinned, bouncing a bit on her toes as Hermione tidied up her desk and stepped away. “ _Please_ tell me that kiss was as romantic as it looked.”

 

“Oh, God help me,” Hermione muttered, turning red. “I can't believe they put it on the front page. Is this a slow news day, or something?”

 

“Every day's a slow news day when former Death Eater Draco Malfoy is getting his face snogged off by War Heroine Hermione Granger,” Ginny snorted. “Why _wouldn't_ that be on the front page? Also, I'm _furious_ at you that I'm finding out about this from the _Prophet_ , like some _peasant_. I'm supposed to have the inside track, here.”

 

“Is nothing sacred?” Hermione whined.

 

“No,” Susan and Ginny said, together. They shared a grin, and Susan added, “Hermione, the Girl Code is pretty clear on matters of scandalous, news-worthy romances. Those must be shared with the coven to be dissected.”

 

“My love life is not a secondary school science class frog,” Hermione grumbled.

 

“Regardless, you broke the Girl Code, and there are serious ramifications for that,” Susan told her, grimly. At Hermione's narrow look, she said, softly, “Yes. The gravest of punishments.”

 

“What?” she asked, suspiciously.

 

“You will be subjected to three consecutive minutes of hearing how Harry makes love, and you cannot cover your ears or otherwise attempt to tune out the proceedings.”

 

Hermione recoiled. “No!”

 

Ginny smiled dreamily. “Are you sure? It's some good stuff.”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“I mean, first, let me preface this by saying: Thank _Merlin_ for parseltongues.”

 

Hermione shrieked, throwing her hands over her ears. “Damn you, I'm already going to lunch! What do you want from me?” she pleaded.

 

Susan grinned. “Well, if you're not taught a lesson, you might hide some juicy stuff down the line.”

 

“I _won't_. I'll tell you everything, just make her stop,” Hermione said, wildly.

 

They both laughed, and flanked her, grabbing her elbows to steer her out of the Ministry and down the cobblestoned street. They didn't go far, not wanting to waste a single precious moment that could be spent gossiping, and ended up right across the street at a greasy pub.

 

And every time she hesitated in answering a question, Ginny would go, _You know, Harry does this thing when he's really in the mood that's so--_ And Hermione would end up shouting the answer over her.

 

Clearly they'd both missed their calling as torturers and interrogators.

 

By the time she got to meeting Blaise at the resort, Ginny slammed her hand on the table, making the liquid in their mugs jump. “I _knew_ it. I knew something was going on. I even told Harry to try and weasel it out of you,” she said, proudly.

 

Hermione scowled. “Well, congratulations, he did. And before you get all huffy, I swore him to secrecy.”

 

Ginny swallowed her indignant outburst, rolling her eyes. “So was it true?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Susan's eyes nearly shot out of her head. “It was? How do you know?”

 

“I asked Draco. And he did everything in his power to avoid admitting it outright, which was really all I needed to hear,” she said, with a shrug. “And we... I don't know if I'd class it as an argument. It was definitely... There was some yelling, but I guess we weren't _arguing_ , per se.”

 

“And what happened here, then?” Ginny tapped the newspaper. “Did he say he loved you?”

 

“ _What_? No!” Hermione protested. “We've only been engaged for four and a half months, Ginny. He'd have to be a lunatic to go from not caring if I exist to loving me in that amount of time.”

 

Ginny shrugged. “I'm willing to bet that Malfoy's certifiable.”

 

Susan looked thoughtful. “Do you love him?”

 

Hermione stared at her. “Please see my response two seconds ago,” she said, eyebrows raising pointedly. “Four and a half months of sort-of dating is not enough time to determine something like that.”

 

The redhead rolled her eyes, groaning. “Sorry, I forgot who we were dealing with, here. So what's the magic number, then? When can you say the magic words?”

 

After considering it a moment, Hermione decided, “Seventeen to nineteen months.”

 

“That's... specific,” Susan murmured.

 

“That's Hermione,” Ginny reminded her, in a dry tone.

 

“Well, the anniversary, you'd think is a prime moment for it, but it would feel forced or fake, then. Like you're only saying it because you made it a whole year,” Hermione explained. “So it has to be longer than a year and it can't be a near an actual anniversary. Or near Valentine's Day.”

 

Ginny stared at her. “You have the romantic sensibilities of a sock full of _cheese_ ,” she said, incredulous.

 

She huffed, crossing her arms. “I don't have to defend myself to you! I've given it a lot of thought--”

 

“ _Clearly_.”

 

“And I think that's the best time,” she finished, primly.

 

“What if he says it sooner than that?” Susan wondered, looking faintly concerned.

 

Hermione frowned. “Well, then he's probably either grasping a bit or just saying it to make me happy, I suppose. I don't think he will, anyway. He's probably at least half again as tetchy about being emotional as I am.”

 

Susan looked ready to argue, but Ginny held up a hand, sighing. “Don't bother. We got her into planning mode, and if it doesn't fit the logic of her plan, she's not going to accept it,” she advised the woman. “For the record, I blame myself for letting her fall back into that trap. I asked the question. That's on me.”

 

“I'm still here,” Hermione grumped.

 

“Oh, well. Tell us again what he said before you kissed him,” Susan said, excitedly.

 

Hermione groaned, but repeated what she remembered of his confession, speaking stubbornly through their happy sigh-squealing. And she supposed, after telling it three separate times (they had her try again and again, telling her to even take on his tone of voice so they could _feel present_ in the moment), that she had to admit to herself that maybe it was a _little_ romantic.

 

Just a tiny bit.

 


	33. The Disco Revolution

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The Disco Revolution**

 

…

 

She was walking home from work when she heard him.

 

“You have a rather nasty habit of behaving unexpectedly.”

 

Hermione jumped damn near a mile, turning towards the dark-skinned wizard. She hadn't even noticed him sitting at a little wrought-iron table outside the tea shop. She'd been too preoccupied thinking about her fourth iteration of the Werewolf Rights proposal. “Blaise,” she muttered, frowning.

 

He had a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the table in front of him. “Do you want to sit for a moment?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

His teeth flashed in a smile. “I suppose I _could_ walk you home...” he said, thoughtfully, his smile briefly widening when her nose wrinkled at the thought. “I'll buy you a cup of tea. You look like you could use it.”

 

Grumbling, she plopped into the chair opposite, glaring at him. “You know, bullying me into doing what you want is going to end badly for you,” she said. “At some point, I'm going to wonder, _why don't I just curse this arsehole_? And then you'll be looking down the business end of my wand.”

 

“I like you when you're upset,” he commented. “You look prettiest, then.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Complimenting you?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up a bit.

 

She crossed her arms. “Yes. It makes me uncomfortable.”

 

“You must be the first witch in all of history who hates compliments.” He raised his hand to the waitress inside the shop, indicating that he wanted another tea for his companion.

 

Her eyes flashed. “Actually, no, I'm not. There's a rather impressive history of women hating being given 'compliments' by unlikeable men. And hiding the fact that you're actively trying to make me upset behind the fact that it's a compliment is an awful way to treat other people.”

 

“You don't know that I'm doing that,” he reminded her, amused.

 

“It doesn't matter,” she snapped. “The fact that I'm telling you that's how I feel about it should be enough. If you've even a shred of respect or decency in you, you'll stop.”

 

“And what makes you think I _do_ have either of those things?”

 

“At this point, Blaise, I really _don't_ ,” she grit out, her eyes narrowing. His smile faded a bit, and she pressed forward, relentless. “You've done nothing to indicate that there's _anything_ in you that would even _resemble_ those two qualities.”

 

He tapped his fingers on the table, regarding her with half-lidded eyes. Then, he tapped the paper. “So, what happened, here?”

 

“None of your sodding business.”

 

“Do you fancy yourself in love with him?”

 

“Don't make me repeat myself,” she bit out.

 

Blaise regarded the picture again, and then flipped the newspaper over so that it was face-down. “You realize that he doesn't love _you_. The Malfoys only love themselves.”

 

“Oh, for God's sake,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “Is that supposed to be a revelation? We've only been talking for a few months after seven years of never seeing each other. Of course he doesn't love me. Don't be an idiot.” The tea arrived, and she dumped some sugar in hers, angrily.

 

“You never struck me as the sort to kiss someone you didn't think you loved,” he murmured.

 

She sipped her tea, trying to keep her simmering fury at bay long enough to respond coherently. “Well, Blaise, I rather suspect that what you know about me is seriously hindered by the fact that you've never actually bothered to get to know me. People kiss people for all sorts of reasons, including but not limited to having a simple desire to kiss. If you've spent the last eight years belaboring under the impression that I'm some sort of wistful, true-love-obsessed virgin waiting for my knight to come along, then you have _truly_ wasted your time.”

 

He fell silent after her proclamation, and they just stared at each other for a few minutes, sipping tea. He had that look that the Malfoys got, sometimes, when she did something they didn't expect – that calculating look, like they'd just realized that she was a person and not a robot that did Typical Hermione Granger Stuff.

 

That look was so _annoying_.

 

“Did you ever find out if it was true?” he finally asked, softly.

 

“Yes.”

 

He leaned forward. “How?”

 

“I asked him.”

 

Blaise blinked, and sat back again. “You asked him,” he repeated, his tone growing incredulous. “And he just _told_ you.”

 

She shrugged, and then finished her tea in a few gulps. She reached forward to grab the _Prophet._ “Thanks for the cuppa. Mind if I keep this? I think I'm going to cut out the picture and _frame_ it and hang it above my bed,” she said, in her _sweetest_ tone. He just stared at her as she stood with the newspaper, tucking it under her arm and turning away.

 

He didn't call out to her as she left, for which she was glad. Before she made it home, she tossed the newspaper in a trash bin.

 

Stupid Slytherins.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she Flooed to Harry's on Saturday, she supposed she wasn't _shocked_ to find Draco there. He and Ginny were rounding up James and Albus, and he was carrying the bag the boys used when they stayed the night at Andromeda's. “Hullo,” she said, glancing at the clock. It was only just after lunch. “You're dropping them off this weekend?”

 

Ginny grinned. “We decided it was high time we take Draco clubbing, so he can see how we _used_ to be before the boys came along.”

 

“Who's the 'we' in this situation?” Hermione wondered.

 

“Susan and I. But Harry and Ron are coming, too. And you, obviously,” Ginny added, earning a roll of Hermione's eyes.

 

“Well, thanks for _asking_ and making sure I didn't have plans,” Hermione muttered.

 

“Oh, come off it. You know damn well it's Harry's birthday tomorrow, so your plan was to hang out with us all weekend. What else were you going to do tonight?” Ginny scoffed. “And don't say wedding planning, because I already asked Draco and he said his mother was out of town visiting a cousin in Paris.”

 

When Hermione's glare lifted to him, Draco held up his hands defensively. “I didn't know that was supposed to be some kind of _secret_.”

 

“Draco doesn't have clothes for that sort of thing,” Hermione pointed out.

 

“Oh, really?” Ginny said, in faux alarm. “Oh, dear Merlin, you're right! If only there was something we could do in order to get him the proper clothes in time. Something fantastical. Something _magical_ , even. Oh, if _only_ there were--”

 

“All _right_ ,” Hermione cut in, crossly. James made a break for it, and Hermione stepped to the side to grab him and hoist him into her arms.

 

Grinning, Ginny grabbed Albus. “Let's go.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

While they were at Andromeda's, Ginny let her in on the rest of the day – Harry and Ron had left for the day to go see the Cannons playing, Ron's treat. They knew better, by now, than to stay with the girls while they were getting ready. Between asking their thoughts on what seemed like every outfit known to man and having to hold their bladders in check for hours on end while Ginny and Hermione monopolized the bathroom, they'd long since started making alternate plans for Saturday afternoons. Of course, they had the extra reason that it was Ron's birthday present to his best mate.

 

Harry had invited Draco along, but the man had declined; his official reason for doing so was that the Cannons played like utter garbage. Hermione knew that the real reason was that he was uncomfortable being alone with his two former archenemies, especially on a _birthday celebration_. It might have been alright with just Harry, but he and Ron hadn't even seen each other since that night they all went to the pub together.

 

She had a suspicion that Draco would be more than eager enough to hang out with Harry and Ron alone the next time they had a night out planned. No single boy could take that much girliness.

 

When they made it back to Grimmauld Place, Susan was already there, holding an old shopping bag.

 

“Finally,” she exclaimed, upon seeing them. “Look, I brought the _good_ stuff. My old school-friend works for Lush and she's always sending me things to try out.” She tipped the bag a bit, and Ginny gasped at all the bottles in there.

 

“Oh, you auburn-haired _delight_ ,” Ginny crowed, rustling through them.

 

“What's Lush?” Draco asked. Hermione felt his hand on her waist, and startled a bit, turning to glance at him. He'd never been one for casual touching. She wondered if he was trying something out, but looking at his face, she realized that he wasn't showing any signs of his usual tension when stepping out of his comfort zone. He likely didn't even realize where his hand was.

 

“It's a Muggle cosmetics and bath stuff company,” Hermione explained. “It can get rather expensive. The stuff's pretty poncy.” She leaned into him a bit.

 

Draco peered into the bag. “Is it all for girls?”

 

“No,” Susan said, laughing. “Anyone's allowed to enjoy the finest bath salts produced in the United Kingdom, even men.”

 

His eyes narrowed a bit. “Would other men make fun of that man for doing so?” he asked, suspicous.

 

“Probably,” Ginny said, grinning. She picked up a bottle from the bag, and displayed it for him. “You know, Malfoy, I think I'm interested in seeing how you like smelling like a pina colada.”

 

As she advanced on him, the hand on Hermione's waist tugged at her abruptly, sending her stumbling in front of him as a protective barrier. Placing both his hands on Hermione's waist to keep her between him and Ginny, he said, “I don't think so, Weaselette.” They circled each other, and Hermione huffed in annoyance as she was dragged around.

 

“Let me go!” she said, slapping at his hands.

 

“Grab him!” Ginny suddenly yelled.

 

The hands left Hermione's waist as Draco yelled in surprise. She whirled to see that Susan had her arms hooked under his armpits, forcing him to bend backwards at the waist to accommodate her much shorter frame. Susan locked her hands together behind his neck as he flailed his arms ineffectually.

 

“Don't--” Draco growled at Ginny, as she opened the cap of the lotion and poured some into her hands. “Weaselette, I'm _warning_ you--!”

 

She advanced on him.

 

“ _Hermione_ ,” he tried, beginning to sound panicked as he tried to straighten up with Susan's weight hanging off of his shoulders. He couldn't quite make it.

 

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. “You think I'm going to do anything for you, after you just used me as a _human shield_?” Instead, she sat down, grabbing the dropped bag of bath stuff and rifling through it, not even sparing a glance up as he sputtered. Ginny cackled with an unholy glee and a moment later, she heard Draco yelling in outrage as she smeared it on his face and arms.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

An hour later, he was sitting against the headboard of the guest room, flipping through _Witch Weekly_ as Ginny flounced in. “Okay, what do you think about _this_ one?” she asked, turning a bit.

 

“If you think I'm going to help you after what you did--”

 

“Oh, stuff it, you smell delightful,” she said, dismissing his irritation with a wave. “Now tell me, and honestly: Does this make my shoulders look boxy?”

 

“Your boxy shoulders make your shoulders look boxy,” he muttered, and a second later he yelped as a scented candle (minus the glass holder, thank Merlin) hit the headboard right beside his ear. It bounced off and hit his shoulder, rolling down his chest to where he caught it. “You could have broken my _nose_!”

 

Ginny looked perfectly unrepentant. “Outfit. Shoulders. Tell me.”

 

He let out a long-suffering sigh, dropping the magazine in his lap as he looked up at her. His eyes crawled over her from head to toe, and then he said, “Lose the belt, it shortens your torso and makes your shoulders look mannish. Just wear heels,” he added, when she started to protest. “It'll put your arse out and no one will notice your belly, like you're _so_ worried about.”

 

She looked down at herself, and then at the mirror of the guest room's vanity. “Thanks,” she finally said, brightly, and left.

 

He picked up the magazine again, thankful for the fact that at least Ginny wasn't sensitive. He couldn't imagine he'd get away with anything quite so candid with Hermione. For such a confident woman – and a pretty girl, to boot – she was almost shockingly uncertain of her physical attributes at times.

 

As if on cue, he heard her yelp down the hallway from the bathroom. “Ow! That touched my _scalp_.”

 

“Stop fidgeting,” Susan defended. “This'll be over a lot sooner if you'd quit wriggling around like a flobberworm.”

 

“You did _not_ just call me a flobberworm.”

 

“Sit still, or I'll brand your forehead with this thing,” Susan threatened.

 

Ginny re-appeared in a different outfit, this one with high-heeled boots that nearly reached her knees. She really did have nice legs, he thought, considering her. She had an athletic body from playing Quidditch, which he supposed wasn't entirely to his taste, but he'd have to be neutered if he couldn't admit to himself that the youngest Weasley was almost _shockingly_ good-looking (at least when you considered her brothers). “Much better. Change the top,” he added. “Do something in blue. Orange is your _worst_ color.”

 

“Crap, I own a lot of orange,” she complained.

 

“Yes, I noticed, and it clashes with your hair and makes you look like a wilted carrot.” There was another pained yelp from the bathroom, and he narrowed his eyes at the hallway. “Just _what_ is she doing, in there?”

 

“Oh, trying to straighten Hermione's hair. They've got this Muggle thing that looks like iron pincers,” Ginny explained, forming her hand in the shape of a claw and clamping them down on invisible hair. “They heat the hair up and make it go straight, at least for a bit. Usually a shower'll undo it.”

 

Draco stared at her, blankly. He tried to imagine Hermione without her riotous curls, and couldn't. “What's _she_ going to wear, then?”

 

The redhead groaned, long-suffering, and moved forward to flop onto the bed beside him. He just barely got his legs out of the way in time. “I have got the _cutest_ top for her, and she refuses to wear it because it shows just a _little_ bit of her stomach.”

 

“Why would you have clothes that show your stomach?” he asked, with a blink.

 

She shrugged, grinning. “It's a Muggle thing, I guess. It's sexy.”

 

“That sounds indecent,” he intoned. “Why should a Muggle want to look 'sexy' in public, like that?”

 

Ginny laughed, shaking her head a bit. “You really are from a different world, sometimes,” she observed, with a wry twist of her lips. “It's a way to meet people, I suppose. You want to look appealing. It's advertising yourself. And if people like what they see, well, they flirt with you.”

 

He considered it, swiftly deciding that he didn't want Hermione in anything that inspired other men to flirt with her. “You'll have to get her something else, then. She's unlikely to change her mind,” he said, in a nonchalant tone.

 

She punched his shoulder, and he gasped at the sheer _force_ of it. Hermione's little slaps had nothing on Ginny's sometimes- _inhuman_ strength. “You're just worried some bloke'll hit on her,” Ginny accused.

 

“No, I'm not.”

 

“You liar,” she said, grinning viciously. “You think she'll flirt with some other guy.”

 

He shook his head, resisting the urge to rub his shoulder, which still ached sharply from the blow. “That doesn't worry me, at all.”

 

“We'll see,” she said, with a cryptic look from the corners of her eyes. Before he could ask her to explain, she stood and sauntered out of the room. As soon as she was gone, he allowed his face to contort in pain as he rubbed his shoulder. That had bloody well _hurt_.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

By the time Hermione suffered through the hair-straightening, argued with Ginny about whether or not she should wear that god-awful crop-top, and had gotten dressed, Susan was already downstairs with Draco. She was trying to teach him a few modern dancing steps, with few results.

 

“This looks absolutely ridiculous,” Draco complained, as Hermione came to the top of the steps. He was standing opposite Susan, and had stopped moving, crossing his arms.

 

She laughed. “It _doesn't_. Trust me, when you see everyone doing this to the music, it'll look perfectly normal.” Her eyes went past him to Hermione as she descended the stairs. “Hermione, help me show him.”

 

Draco turned to look up at her. She was wearing a leather skirt – the _only_ concession she'd been willing to make to Ginny, and only because it went more than halfway down her thighs – and a red blouse that Ginny said made her breasts look like 'succulent balloons,' which was a disgusting description Hermione would have _gladly_ gone the rest of her life _never_ hearing.

 

His eyes caught on her hair, which was sleek and straight, running down her back. He hadn't realized just how long it was – without being kinked and curled, her hair easily hit the middle of her back. He also hadn't realized just how much he associated those curls with Hermione – for a second, he found the sight of her so disorienting that he almost fancied he was looking at an entirely different person.

 

In turn, Hermione eyed him. Ginny had transfigured Draco's clothes into black jeans and a button-up shirt. Men always had it so easy.

 

“I think if we actually played the music, it might look more natural,” Hermione suggested, ignoring the way Draco's eyes kept traveling up and down her bared legs. “Even a waltz looks kind of stupid without music.” She headed past them to the book shelf, where a stereo occupied one of the shelves entirely, a stack of CDs wedged next to it. She bent over to peruse the selection.

 

Draco stared at her arse, until Susan elbowed him and gave him a _look_. He mouthed: _What_? And she squinted at him, incredulous.

 

Hermione found an old CD of 'dance hits,' and laughed as she glanced at the track titles. It seemed to be largely 70s, but that might be fun, too. “Let's teach him about the _disco revolution_ ,” Hermione suggested, and Susan burst out laughing as she slid the CD in.

 

“Who are the discos?” Draco wondered. And what were they revolting against?

 

Ginny came down the stairs as _More, More, More_ came on by Andrea True, and she laughed. “What are you doing with that _ancient music_ of Harry's?” she demanded. “What is this, his _disco_ nonsense?”

 

“What is _disco_?” Draco demanded, raising his voice. Hermione and Susan were already swaying in time with the music, mouthing along with the chorus to each other.

 

“It's a type of Muggle music that was popular in the 1970s,” Ginny said. “And it's awful. Harry _loves_ it.”

 

“How can you say it's awful?” Hermione demanded. “This was the _original_ dance club music.” She moved over to the stereo, flipping through the tracks. “I know _one_ song even _you_ love.” She straightened as the song suddenly changed, a somber piano riff cutting through the silence.

 

Ginny promptly grinned as Gloria Gaynor breathed into the mic: “ _At first I was afraid, I was petrified..._ ”

 

Draco could do nothing but stand to the side as all three girls burst into song, staring in wide-eyed, slightly judgmental amazement when it seemed like each of them knew _every word_ to this song. During the non-vocal parts, they would briefly start dancing, although the dancing always took a back seat to shouting the words at each other.

 

Harry and Ron Flooed in at that point. Both of them stopped short at the fireplace, the song slowly registering with them.

 

“Oh, cor, who put this man-hating tripe on?” Ron groaned.

 

As if on cue, the three girls whirled, pointing at him as they sang, “ _Just turn around now, 'cause you're not welcome anymore_!” Ron rolled his eyes, and then did a double-take when he saw Harry bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

 

“What?” Harry defended. “You can't claim it isn't catchy.” He began dancing across the floor to Ginny, twirling when he reached her and doing John Travolta's finger-pointing move from _Saturday Night Fever_.

 

“This _treachery_ will not stand,” Ron said, scowling as he stared at the four of them dancing. Until Susan moved towards him, grabbing his hands and pulling him into the fray.

 

Draco could only stare as the five of them cavorted, wriggling their hips and laughing as they sang along to the last of the song. He had to admit that while they looked _ridiculous_ individually, the fact that they were all doing more-or-less the same moves in tandem did make them look a bit better.

 

Not that he thought he could possibly do it.

 

As the last song faded out, Harry pulled apart from Ginny. “Alright, let us get changed. And for God's sake, someone teach Malfoy how not to embarrass us at the club.”

 

“I think you're doing a fine job of embarrassing _yourself_ ,” Draco noted, as Harry headed for the stairs, Ron in tow.

 

Ginny was frowning up the stairs. “I'd better go chaperone. They have the worst fashion sense.” She headed up, disappearing around the corner. Susan moved over to the stereo, inspecting the title track and moving onto _Boogie Wonderland_.

 

Hermione waved Draco closer to her. “Come on,” she said, still grinning breathlessly.

 

He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

 

She closed the distance between them, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the center of the living room. He pulled his hands free of hers and crossed his arms tightly. “If you stop thinking about how silly it looks, you'll look great. Trust me.” At his skeptical glare, she reminded him, “Remember when you danced the waltz with me at that first party? I put myself into your capable hands and I _didn't_ make a complete embarrassment of myself? Well, let me return the favor.”

 

Sighing dramatically, Draco rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms.

 

Grinning, she looked down at his feet. “Okay, so there's no real moves or steps. You just kind of have to move in time with the beat and have fun. Start by moving your feet, back and forth.” She demonstrated.

 

Slowly, he began to copy her, frowning at their feet.

 

“Try to keep your feet moving, no matter what else happens,” she said, pressing a little closer to him. “When you feel like you can do that, you start moving your hips, or your shoulders.”

 

“You look blisteringly stupid.”

 

“And you keep thoughts like _that_ to yourself,” she advised, pinching his stomach and earning a wince.

 

He swayed a bit as he moved back and forth in a pitiful two-step, and even Susan smiled encouragingly, clapping a bit. He scowled at her, but loosened up the tiniest bit at that smidgen of approval. Then his gaze flicked back to Hermione, who was smiling brilliantly up at him, and he exhaled a bit as he looked at her. He could do this.

 

“It's a good thing you're learning, you know,” Susan pointed out, and he looked back at her as she swayed in time to the music. “We're going to have this kind of dancing at our wedding, and you don't want to just stand on the sidelines the entire time.”

 

He blinked, and Hermione realized she hadn't yet told him he was going to be invited. He recovered quickly, snorting a bit. “So my options are to watch you lot look like imbeciles, or look like an imbecile _with_ you?”

 

“Yes, and it's _so much more fun_ being an imbecile with friends than scowling on the sidelines and being glad you're the only non-imbecile,” Susan told him, twirling a bit..

 

Draco looked back down at Hermione, who still had that slight smile on her face, and realized that in the non-Slytherin world, this was probably true.

 

To people like Hermione, dancing was just fun. Looking silly or stupid was all a part of that fun, and it was only fun because she trusted the people she was looking stupid with. He tried to imagine _wanting_ to make a fool of himself, and for a second he almost imagined the sensation. It must be freeing, to act like a silly nit and never having to worry that your friends would pounce on the opportunity to attack.

 

His thoughts were disbanded by Harry and Ron's loud voices as they jogged down the stairs. Ron was arguing with Ginny about whether or not he looked like a 'dumb ponce.'

 

Draco fell still as he watched them, listening to everyone join in on the argument. Even though they were all insulting each other or making fun of each other, everyone was smiling, and the air lacked a certain tension he associated with arguments. The amount of passion which they threw into every-day conversations like this truly boggled his mind. He was sure that if he put this much effort into arguing with a Weasley over their outfit on a regular basis, he'd be knackered and putting himself to bed no later than three in the afternoon.

 

“Oh, like you're one to talk,” Ron was scoffing. “You've got Harry the Disco Queen over here, and you think _I_ dance like a buffoon?”

 

“Woah, woah,” Harry intervened. “Just _what_ is wrong with my dancing?”

 

“Oh, I don't know, maybe a little of this, mate?” Ron popped his hips, bowing out his legs as he did so. He did some complicated moves with his hands, effortlessly imitating the moves from _Saturday Night Fever_ , and Hermione burst out laughing.

 

At Harry's wounded look, Hermione covered her mouth with her hand. “Well, Harry, that does sort of look like you.”

 

“Oh, and Ron is any better?” Harry snorted, and then started stepping back and forth, bumping his shoulders up around his ears with his elbows planted at his sides at a ninety-degree angle, leaving his hands in front of him like a finger-snapping T-Rex. He didn't do anything aside from this for several seconds. “This is the _only_ move he knows. Just step, shrug, finger snap, shrug.”

 

“Well _Merlin forbid_ I encroach upon your signature Hips 'Round The World move,” Ron exclaimed, offended, and within seconds they were grappling with each other, trying to be the one to get the other in a headlock.

 

Draco reached forward to grab the back of Hermione's shirt, pulling her back a bit and out of the fray as he watched the proceedings with a raised eyebrow.

 

It was Ginny that finally broke it up, putting Ron into a _vicious_ headlock that left him gasping for air and scrabbling at her arm. She planted her foot on Harry's stomach and extended it, pushing him out of reach and nearly exposing her knickers to all present. “Both of you, quit it, before I knock your heads together like the Three Stooges,” she threatened, although she was stifling a smile as she did her best to sound like her mother.

 

“Your friends are insane,” Draco murmured into Hermione's ear.

 

“Oh, _you're_ one to talk, Mr. My Best Friend Is Literally A Psychopath,” she huffed back. He smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear, and she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling back. “Does it look strange, like this?”

 

“You look stunning,” he told her, seriously. “But I'll be glad to have your bushy head back tomorrow.”

 

“Let's go, let's go,” Ginny announced, clapping her hands and grabbing her wand. “Malfoy, we Apparate to the Leaky and walk from there. Don't get lost. You _do_ have your license, don't you?”

 

“Please,” he said, scornfully, taking his wand out. He noticed that neither Harry nor Ron tensed up when he did so.

 

Times really _had_ changed.

 

A moment later, they were all disappearing from the living room with a thundering _crack_.

 


	34. Modern Dancing

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Modern Dancing**

 

…

 

Draco thought club music sounded positively awful.

 

Getting into the club had been an ordeal, because the line had stretched around the building. Draco had nearly _punched Harry in the face_ when he wrapped his arm around Draco's waist, pretending they were boyfriends as Ginny and Hermione chatted with the bouncers. Harry had smiled at him and muttered between his teeth to _just go with it_ , _honey_. He glanced at the two girls talking to the bouncers, and saw the laughing way Ginny placed her hand on the main one's arm, caught the speculative way the men looked at them both.

 

He realized rather quickly what the gambit was, but that didn't make him feel any less like hexing the other bouncer blind when he wouldn't take his eyes off Hermione's chest. He forced himself to relax, even slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders. The green-eyed man shot him a startled look, and Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

 

Hell, he wasn't in Slytherin for nothing. He was pretty sure he could play the part better than Harry, even without the prior years of practice.

 

He leaned into Harry a bit, whispering into his ear, “Just for the record, you'd be the Keeper in this situation.” He smiled warmly as Harry reddened and spluttered, as though he were just teasing his boyfriend whom he _loved so very much_.

 

Minutes later, some people spilled out of the club, and the whole group was able to cut the line and slide in on the sheer force of Ginny's flirtations.

 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Harry sprang from Draco's side. “Bloody _hell_ , Malfoy!”

 

“You told me to go with it.”

 

“ _Not that well!_ ”

 

“Did you want to get in, or not?” he asked, archly. Behind them, Ron looked positively green. “You shouldn't strike up pretenses you're not willing to commit to.”

 

Ginny turned, grinning. “I can't even begin to tell you how proud I am of you. I think that was the _first time_ anyone ever believed Harry was gay,” she said, walking backwards a bit to face them. The droning and heavy beat of the club grew louder and louder the closer they got to the epicenter of the building. “I thought you were going to kiss him, for a second.”

 

Harry shuddered. “I really, _really_ wish you hadn't said that,” he said, irritably.

 

“What'd you say to him, anyway?” Susan asked, curiously.

 

Draco turned to tell her, and Harry roughly steered his shoulder back so he was facing forward again. “Don't you dare,” he said, tightly. “And for the actual record, _no I would not_.”

 

It took Draco a second to realize he was responding to what he'd whispered earlier, and he laughed. “Whatever you say, Potter.”

 

“I'm not dancing within fifty feet of _either_ of you,” Ron announced.

 

“Oh, right, like your dancing's so _seductive_ to anyone,” Harry sniped. Ginny opened the door into the club proper, and Draco was nearly bowled over by the sheer amount of _noise_ that suddenly filled the corridor. The others didn't seem to notice, filing through the door. “God knows if I could help myself if I saw you shrugging _so deliciously_ and snapping your fingers like the _sex god_ you are.”

 

“Keep talking, Hip Pops,” Ron said, shoving him a bit.

 

Hermione wedged between them before Harry could shove him back. “Harry, go get me drinks before Draco turns you _fully_ fabulous.”

 

Harry made a deeply aggrieved noise, stalking towards the bar.

 

Draco was still wincing a bit as the noise of the room threatened to perforate his ear drums. Hermione touched his arm, and leaned in, talking into his ear, “You wouldn't happen to have, you know, any leanings of that nature?” Her eyebrows rose. When he stared at her, she held up her hands in surrender. “It was just _awfully_ convincing.”

 

“If you so much as suggest it, again, I'm going to shag you right in the middle of the bar top,” he threatened.

 

She grinned, and grabbed his hand, pulling him after her friends.

 

Draco glanced around as they weaved through the crowd. He didn't think he'd ever seen so many people crammed into a space like this since the Quidditch World Cup. Everywhere Hermione took him, he had to brush past a seemingly unending _wall_ of other people. Of _Muggles_. Out on the dance floor, they were like a single, writhing mass of people, undulating in time to the deafening beat.

 

It looked like an _orgy_. He wasn't entirely sure he approved. And he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go out there when it came time to start dancing.

 

They couldn't find a table with seats, so they crowded around a tall-top table without any, waiting for Harry and Ginny to return with their drinks. Draco realized no one had asked him what he even wanted. He glanced at Hermione, Susan, and Ron in turn. They were all yelling over the music, already swaying and bouncing in time to it.

 

For Merlin's sake, they all looked like they were _enjoying_ the noise. He couldn't find anything that even remotely resembled a melody in any of the booming din. The disco music he'd been subjected to at Grimmauld Place had certainly been different enough from what he was used to, but at _least_ it sounded somewhat like music. This didn't sound like disco _or_ the Weird Sisters, which was a group he'd never particularly cared for, anyway.

 

“You're going to play this at your wedding?” he asked Susan, wincing a bit as a new song started and everyone in the crowd _screamed_.

 

She laughed. “No, no, club music isn't really... appropriate, for that. But we'll be playing loads of Muggle songs, and you dance pretty much the same to those. This stuff's a bit more high-energy than, uh, usual.”

 

Harry and Ginny returned with three glasses apiece. Ginny handed something orange to Hermione and something amber-colored to Susan.

 

Draco and Ron both got something dark and a little fizzy. Draco regarded it.

 

“Sorry, Malfoy, I didn't know what kind of drinks you liked. This is Jack and Coke,” Harry explained, shouting over the music. “Jack Daniels mixed with Coca Cola.”

 

 _What_ mixed with _what_?

 

Swallowing the question – he didn't fancy having to spend the night being treated like a dumb child who knew nothing, and was honestly getting sick of having to suffer through all the explanations – he took a sip. The alcohol was definitely present, a sharp tang, but it had a more bitter inflection than Firewhiskey. This was countered by the syrupy sweetness of the other component. He supposed this was what Muggles drank instead of Butterbeer.

 

“What've you got?” he asked Hermione, and she slid her glass towards him. He sipped it, detecting orange juice and some bland alcohol. All in all, he rather liked it better. “What is this?”

 

“It's called a Screwdriver. It's got orange juice and vodka,” she shouted into his ear.

 

“It has its own name?”

 

She nodded, then added, “Muggle cocktails all have their own names. When you order it by the name, you always get the same mixture, no matter what bar you go to. A Screwdriver is always orange juice and vodka, even if you left the country.”

 

He couldn't tell if that was odd, fanciful, or practical. He supposed it saved a step of having to explain what you wanted to different bartenders all the time. “What are the other ones?”

 

Hermione thought for a moment. “There are more than I could possibly begin to even explain. There are entire books of cocktails,” she added. “I like Old Fashioneds, sometimes, or a Cosmopolitan. Susan's drinking a Dark 'N' Stormy. There's Moscow Mules, Manhattans, French 75s, Tom Collins', Pisco Sours... There's probably at least a hundred really common ones, plus all the less common ones.”

 

“Is this a cocktail? Jack and Coke?”

 

“No. I mean, sort of,” she explained, laughing. “That's called a highball. It's when you mix the liquor with one other thing, to make the liquor easier to drink. Technically, Susan's Dark 'N' Stormy is one, too, and this Screwdriver. But usually mixing something with Coke isn't really considered a cocktail, for whatever reason.” She took another sip of hers. “You may want to hurry up, by the way. You can't dance with a drink in your hand, and you're not going to want to finish it after leaving it unattended over here.”

 

She took a gulp of her Screwdriver, and watched with amusement as Draco choked down some of the godawful concoction Harry had given him. “We'll get you one of mine, next,” she promised.

 

When all of them had finished the drinks – Draco realized that for whatever reason, Muggle cocktails were not really made to be enjoyed slowly, and seemed to just be a method of forcing inebriation to occur faster – they left the glasses on the table and started towards the writhing mass of the dance floor.

 

He balked a bit, but Hermione looked so excited that he couldn't get his lips to form the protest.

 

He found the press of bodies distracting, and did his best to focus on the person he was supposed to be dancing with. However, it took three more drinks – all Screwdrivers – before he stopped feeling the presence of everyone around him and started throwing himself more or less into the beat. Hell, after his fourth Screwdriver, he could almost imagine that he was starting to like the senseless beat of the music on his skull. It seemed to reverberate through his rib-cage, too, like a phantom heart beating in his chest.

 

By the fifth one, he was no longer cognizant of the sweat pouring down their bodies. Copying the people around them, he gripped her waist. He was momentarily confused when she turned her back to him, until he felt her press her leather-clad bottom into his hips. He hissed on his inhale, wondering how in the world any of the men in this crowd weren't ridiculously aroused.

 

Maybe they were just used to it.

 

Following the cue of the people around them, he slid an arm around her waist, pressing her more firmly against him. It was like having sex fully clothed. Although he'd never done _that_ with the girl facing away from him, before.

 

By his seventh cocktail in about two hours, he almost felt like his mind had become disembodied. The person laughing at Ron's stupid jokes couldn't possibly be him, nor could that voice agreeing with Ron that the Cannons were having an _excellent_ season that year possibly be his. He even let Ron teach him a move he called 'the hitch-hiker,' which involved pointing a thumb over his shoulders (he had no idea what a hitch-hiker was, but Hermione almost passed out from laughing when she saw him doing it, and he liked watching her laugh).

 

Eight cocktails in, he was smoldering as Harry and Hermione went onto the dance floor, both of them looking _extra_ ridiculous as they started doing the disco-esque moves they'd all made fun of, earlier.

 

Ginny grabbed his hand, and he startled. He recalled her flashing a grin at him. “Come on, let's make those two right and properly jealous,” she shouted, hauling him out onto the dance floor. At first, he wasn't sure if he should – Hermione and him had been dancing rather intimately – but he relaxed a bit when she kept a safe distance between them. He certainly didn't miss the appreciative glances of every other male in the vicinity as the flashy red-head undulated.

 

Of course, it didn't work, and later Draco might reflect that Ginny had simply wanted to dance with someone – Hermione and Harry were in their own world, a fact that the woman genuinely didn't seem to care about.

 

It turned out, he wasn't sure he really cared, either. He did 'the hitch-hiker,' maintaining a serious face even as Ginny _lost it_.

 

“Do yourself a favor, and don't take dance advice from my brother,” she shouted at him.

 

“It doesn't matter, I make everything look good,” he assured her.

 

She laughed as she started doing the stupid move with him, and his serious mien finally broke as he busted out laughing with her. He thought, as he caught a glimpse of Hermione and Harry trying to out-disco each other, that he could finally sort of understand what went on between them. Because, for the first time, he realized he didn't feel particularly threatened by it.

 

In fact, he felt good. Very good. He felt happy, and free, like he'd spent all day riding his broom.

 

He realized he didn't know which version of the man that he knew to be himself was the real one – the one he was every day, or the one he was right then, dancing like a gods-damned idiot in a big sweaty room to music that sounded like a herd of trolls having bellowing sex with each other. He wasn't sure if this was the _true_ him coming out, or just another persona to add to his collection of them: Club Draco. He supposed, in the end, it never truly mattered. Reality was just a bunch of shifting mirrors, anyway.

 

He felt good, and he was happy to let the rest of his thoughts drift away as he focused on that feeling, letting it fill him from the toes up like it hadn't in almost twenty years.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He felt terrible.

 

When he woke up the next morning, it was at Harry's house with a pounding head. He could barely remember the walk back to the Leaky Cauldron, although he knew he spent most of it with his arm slung over Ginny's shoulders as they teetered back into wizarding London. He dimly remembered Harry breaking out some Firewhiskey, and they started playing what they explained were 'drinking games.'

 

He recalled dimly thinking that none of them _really needed_ to be more drunk than they already were, but for some reason he accepted the glass of Firewhiskey anyway as they played various games that he didn't question the rules to: Concoctions, Straight Face, Most Likely... The list went on.

 

Some of the other flashes of memory seemed disconnected from time: Hermione straddling him on the couch in that deliciously tight skirt, the material riding up her thighs as she kissed him. He thought he remembered that it was a dare.

 

He remembered deciding he should probably go home, but being unable to call _Malfoy Manor_ into the Floo without bollocksing it up. He wasn't sure how many times he tried before Hermione grabbed him and hauled him into the guest bedroom up the stairs. She didn't even close the door all the way before kissing him again, pulling at his shirt – he heard the buttons rip and tried to formulate a protest, but it was lost against her lips – and pushing him towards the bed.

 

At some point he heard a _click_ and glanced over to see that someone else had closed the door, although not _before_ Hermione got his pants open and put her mouth on him.

 

Draco's eyes opened, and he flinched against the early dawn light filtering in dimly through the window, turning the sky a light, dusky blue. He wished he could remember _more_ of Hermione going down on him. He recalled the devilish smirk on her face right before she started, and then he remembered feeling like he was in heaven. He remembered that her eye make-up had smudged during the night, and the sight of it running made him want to shag her until she forgot her own name.

 

He didn't think they _did_ shag, though. He shifted, glancing around. She was planted face-first into the pillow beside him, still fully clothed from the night before.

 

He wondered if she'd swallowed.

 

Looking down at himself, he grimaced as he realized he was still hanging out of his pants (he got concerned for a moment until he realized that the smudged red was the remnants of her lipstick), and had to tuck himself back in one-handed, since his other arm had fallen asleep under her. Merlin bless whoever had closed the door the night before.

 

His head felt like a bag of hammers, and he let it fall back against the pillow, his stomach still in knots from all the alcohol the night before.

 

He reached up to smooth his hair off his forehead, and caught a whiff of that pina colada lotion, and he groaned a bit, rolling his eyes. Stupid Ginny. He was going to throw a bucket of aftershave on her one day.

 

At the noise, Hermione shifted a bit, rolling onto her side, pressing her back against him. He shifted carefully onto his side behind her, folding his free arm over her.

 

Pounding headache aside, he couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else just then.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When he woke up again a few hours later, she was out of bed, and for a second he felt a jolt of panic before he heard her laughter filtering up the stairs. The blanket had been tucked more firmly over him, and the door to the room was now cracked open. He sat up, dimly registering Ron crankily complaining about the noise, his own voice muffled – either speaking into the couch or into his own hand.

 

Sliding out of bed, he took the opportunity to button his pants back up. He started to button his shirt, and then sighed in annoyance when he realized half the buttons had been popped off. He buttoned what he could, since he wasn't sure where he'd left his wand in the haze of the night before, and stumbled into the bathroom.

 

A minute later, he was headed downstairs.

 

Ron was on the living room couch, looking sickly and miserable with his arm thrown over his eyes and a blanket covering the lower half of his face. Susan was sitting beneath his legs, using his shins as a make-shift table for her coffee. In the kitchen, Hermione and Harry were chatting tiredly.

 

Ginny was notably absent – clearly Ron's lack of rise-and-shine attitude was genetic.

 

Draco dropped into the chair next to Hermione at the kitchen table, rubbing his head. “Hangover potion?” he asked, dully.

 

“Sorry, mate,” Harry said, getting him a cup of coffee, instead.

 

He barely noticed that apparently he and Harry Potter were on 'mate' terms now, taking the coffee and dumping some sugar into it. “Any cream?” he asked, glancing over the table.

 

“I don't think you'll be wanting to put any cream in you, right now,” Hermione suggested. “Want some porridge?”

 

“Merlin, no.”

 

“Once Ginny's up, let's do brunch,” Harry suggested.

 

Hermione brightened. “At Poppy's?” When Harry nodded, she smiled. “Oh, my God, it's been _years_ since we all went there. Is it even still open?”

 

“'Course. Ginny and I still go, sometimes, if we don't have the boys.”

 

“Should we call ahead, since there's six of us?” Susan asked, from the couch. She was reaching into her pants, and pulled out a small bit of plastic that Draco dimly recognized as a mobile phone.

 

As they chatted – Harry finding the number for Susan and discussing the type of food they were going to get, with Hermione declaring that she could dearly use a mimosa just about then – Draco sipped his coffee, watching them all carefully. He would have assumed that the sense of camaraderie from the night before would have slipped away as he sobered up, but something fundamental seemed to have shifted in that one night.

 

That feeling cemented when Ginny finally came down the stairs, yawning in her pajamas and the remains of last night's make-up, plopping down into the seat beside him and leaning her head on his shoulder as though they'd been best mates for _years_. “I feel like my head is full of Ron's vomit.”

 

Draco looked down at the messy red head resting on his shoulder, utterly bemused – even more so by Harry's seeming apathy over it as he fetched his wife a cup of coffee.

 

Then he said, “Careful, there, you wouldn't want to take that singular distinction from Harry's mouth.”

 

Everyone started laughing, and no one seemed to even _notice_ that he'd called Harry Potter by his given name. Harry slammed his hand on the table, trying not to grin, and picked up a spoonful of sugar from the pot to catapult into Draco's face. “That topic is _anathema_. Especially on my bleeding birthday. The next person to bring it up is _banned_ from this house.”

 

Draco took the sugar to his face admirably, closing his eyes and letting the granules bounce down his face as he sipped smugly on his coffee.

 

He thought that good feeling from the night before would dissipate as the sun came up, but he was startled to find it was still there. And even more started to realize that he knew that feeling; it was the way he felt when he and Hermione argued over coffee in the mornings, when Hermione laughed at something he said. The way he'd felt as she'd shrieked through every second of him driving her father's car. He sobered a bit as he realized that the feeling he'd come to associate with Hermione's presence _wasn't_ just her.

 

It was all of them. It was like the companionship he'd felt among his own house, in a way – that feeling of belonging. But this feeling differed from the Slytherins, most chiefly in the _warmth_ of the feeling. He wondered if this is what it would have felt like, if his parents had been able to have more children.

 

He wondered if this was what it felt like growing up as a Weasley. This strange feeling of not only belonging, but something else... He couldn't quite pinpoint it the feeling, and he grew frustrated as he tried to find the words to explain it to himself.

 

Draco met Hermione's eyes over the rim of his mug, feeling Ginny's head flop against his shoulder again as she groaned over her head some more. The feeling was _almost_ like closeness. Almost like friendship. Almost like the warmth of family. Almost, and certainly a bit of all those things, but something else, too.

 

Then it hit him.

 

It wasn't a feeling so much as it was an _absence_ of a certain feeling – a feeling he'd felt all of his life that was, for the moment, utterly banished.

 

For the first time in his life, he couldn't feel the gnawing anxiety of thinking he might someday end up alone.

 

It was gone.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Ron's appetite had returned with a vengeance by the time they made it to Poppy's, and soon he was tucking into a full English breakfast with his usual voracity. Hermione glared at him. “Remember to breathe, won't you?” she asked, tersely, sipping her mimosa.

 

Draco was drinking from his when she glanced at him. He'd been confused by the presence of alcohol at breakfast, but when they'd assured him it would make the hangover more bearable, he'd acquiesced and asked for one of whatever Hermione was getting. He'd sipped it as they sang the happy birthday song, refusing to join in on grounds that 'Malfoys didn't sing'. He'd been a little quiet that morning, and she was worried that maybe he regretted going out with her friends and spending a night being so uninhibited with them. It wasn't really his style to laugh and joke around, and she'd honestly expected that he'd just Floo right home as soon as he woke up to deal with the embarrassment of having had Harry and Ron see him so unguarded.

 

But he hadn't. When Ginny leaned into him at the kitchen table, he'd glanced at her, a little surprised by the ease with which the woman displayed physical affection (and probably even more so that she'd chosen _him_ as the recipient of it), but hadn't mentioned it.

 

As they all chattered and planned to hit brunch, she expected that at any moment he'd get up, bid his farewells, and disappear.

 

But he was still here.

 

“You've been quiet,” she murmured to him.

 

He shot her a wan smile. “Speaking makes me feel like my head's going to explode. I don't think I've drunk that much in a single go since Hogwarts.”

 

“You took it like a champ. You didn't even throw up,” she said, approvingly.

 

“Malfoys don't 'throw up,'” he informed her, archly, and she laughed.

 

“You just haven't hit the magic point, yet. I'm going to get you throwing up your liquor one of these days,” she promised, narrowing her eyes a bit in challenge. “Or die trying.”

 

“You'll vomit before I do,” he said, confidently.

 

“We'll see.”

 

Harry reached across to spear his fork into some of Draco's breakfast – a crepe with some sort of berry filling – and Draco stared at him. Harry blinked, and then grinned, stuffing it into his mouth. “Birthday boy. You have to share,” he said.

 

Draco yelled in outrage as four _other_ forks suddenly crowded his plate, all trying to get a piece of his breakfast. “Listen, you vultures, if you want crepes, then get your own!” It was too late, though, and by the time all the hands cleared away, half of his meal was gone. He grabbed his fork and retaliated by stealing one of Ron's sausages, and soon all of them were trying to grab a piece of everyone's food, laughing and shouting.

 

It was a good thing they'd opted to sit outside, in the sunshine of the little restaurant's patio; Hermione was sure if they hadn't been, they'd have all been kicked out for being so rowdy.

 

As they finished up eating, everyone pulled out their presents (except for Draco, who'd forgotten it was the Golden Boy's birthday, though no one seemed surprised that he didn't have anything). Hermione got him a snitch signed by the whole current Bulgarian team, as they were reigning champions the previous year (and she was still on fairly good terms with Victor Krum).

 

Ginny handed him a present from her mother. Harry opened it, grimacing at the contents of the box a bit before slowly pulling out a pair of _knit_ shorts.

 

“She's branching out, 'cause it's summer,” Ron explained.

 

“It's still _wool_ ,” Harry muttered.

 

“You'll have to wear it in front of her, you know,” Ginny pointed out, draining the rest of her mimosa. “Just the once, at least.”

 

Harry shot her a pained look, but didn't argue. He knew he had to. Susan added that she'd gotten him something, but it was probably best not to open out in Muggle territory (given where she worked, Hermione would have bet it was a new broom), so she'd left it in his house.

 

They filtered out of the restaurant, meandering aimlessly down the street. None of them seemed particularly keen on ending the day together, and Hermione reached for Draco's hand as they walked. He shot her a surprised look, but then a flicker of a smile crossed his face as he squeezed hers.

 

They seemed to meander aimlessly, mostly walking, as they discussed how long it might take to walk to St. James' Park.

 

Draco wondered, “Why don't we go on one of those trains?

 

“Yeah, right,” Ron muttered. “I'm not going down there with all those crazy Muggles trying to blow the damn things up, these days.” The others nodded or shrugged their agreement, leaving Draco bemused.

 

He looked at Hermione, frowning in confusion.

 

“The bombings, Draco,” she murmured, quietly. When he just stared at her, she said, “Some terrorists set off bombs in the underground earlier this month. Didn't you hear about it?”

 

Obviously not.

 

Looking briefly irritated, she reminded him, “I've been giving you those Muggle newspapers.”

 

Draco tried to restrain the guilty flinch. He mostly read the comics.

 

She continued, “Fifty-two people died, with over seven hundred more injured. That was on the seventh,” she murmured, quietly. “Then Thursday before last, someone tried to do it again, but thankfully their bombs didn't go off.”

 

Draco was silent, frowning. Then he asked, “What's a bomb?”

 

She hesitated, trying to figure out the easiest way to explain it to him. “It's... it's like a _Confringo_ ,” she said, softly. “But bigger. A lot bigger. It's like a _Confringo_ you can use to kill hundreds or even thousands of people at once.”

 

His eyebrows were drawn sharply together. “Why do Muggles have _those_?”

 

“For war,” she said, with a faint shrug. And she said it so naturally, too, like war was just happening all the time, everywhere. Draco only knew of two wars in recent memory, and they'd both involved Voldemort. “Authorities think it's part of the same group that flew the planes into those buildings in America, the towers I told you about.”

 

Draco's shocked expression told her volumes about the state of the wizarding world. They were all so insulated. She wondered if it was simply that they'd told themselves that nothing in the Muggle world mattered to them. “You said that was years ago. People are still letting them run around exploding things?”

 

Hermione stared at him, and huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head a bit. “It's not that easy,” she said, slowly. “They're... everywhere. They don't have a headquarters. They could be anyone. Anyone who believes in their cause could be one of them. It's called splinter-cell terrorism,” she explained. “The people act on behalf of the movement, but don't actually claim an allegiance to a formal government. Imagine if there were a hundred Voldemorts, all trying to eradicate Muggles and Muggle-borns – and they all had their own Death Eaters. They know the plan – to eradicate us – but they're left to do it in any way they see fit. It makes it very hard to track or find these people.”

 

He considered it for a moment. A hundred Voldemorts. Bloody awful. “So why not jail everyone who _might_ be one of them?” he pointed out. “Until they know who it is and can put a proper stop to it.”

 

She shot him a narrow look. “You can't do that,” she said, firmly, looking annoyed and a little angry. “That's like locking up every person who'd ever been in Slytherin because they _might_ be a Death Eater. You can't just lock up thousands of people because they fit a certain profile. It's wrong.”

  
“Even if people are dying?”

 

“Especially then,” she snapped, looking huffy. “We _have_ to retain our sense of humanity in a war, or else we might as well just _give up_.”

 

He fell silent, looking at the people around them. Despite the fact that there had been an attack just weeks prior, everyone looked fairly normal. No one looked frightened.

 

There were people laughing, and living. He wondered how often something this terrible happened in the Muggle world, that people could live through it and then just wake up a few mornings later and go to work like normal. Go to the club. Go to brunch. Celebrate birthdays.

 

Take a walk. He looked up at the sunshine, and then down at his hand in Hermione's. It seemed weird that the weather could be nice when things like that were going on. “Aren't they scared?” he asked, quietly.

 

She blinked, looking up at him with that puzzled frown. The one that made him feel like a sheltered idiot, like she was trying to decide how best to break the news that the world was ending.

 

She spoke slowly, considering each word before she said it. “When you could die at any time, for any reason, you learn to love the days you have, and the people who are still with you,” she said, softly. “A bomb _might_ go off right now, but if you give in to the fear and just huddle in your house waiting for it to end, then they win. You have to find reasons to keep living when you think you've run out of them. It's _really_ important to always fight for your right to feel happiness.”

 

He fell silent again, feeling uneasy. He saw a couple kissing the wall of a shop, and two children playing with some chalk on the sidewalk. He tried to imagine them hiding in their house on this beautiful, sunny day, afraid to go outside. The girl with the chalk looked up at him as he passed, and grinned, pointing at the cat she'd drawn. Draco smiled wanly back, wondering if she knew just how quickly it could all fall to pieces.

 

Probably not. He was glad she didn't. Children shouldn't have to be afraid of dying. They should have simple fears, like monsters under the bed, or the dark.

 

They went to St. James' Park and Hermione showed Draco how to use the swings, and the unease he'd felt during their earlier conversation started to slip away as they swung. He looked at her, her straightened hair starting to get a little wavy, and smiled. When she swung forward, it flew behind her like a banner, catching the sun that decided to shine no matter _what_ awful things were happening on this lonely little planet.

 

Then they went to the London Eye, which Hermione had steadfastly refused to get on. Susan ended up staying on the ground with her as Draco went up with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Ginny pointed out St. James' Park to him and Hyde Park beyond that, mentioning that Hermione _loved_ the Kensington Gardens.

 

When they were back on the ground, they all went to get ice cream, and sat on the riverside in the shadow of the massive ferris wheel to eat their treats.

 

The pall of the brief reminder of the underground bombings had faded away, and he bit into his ice cream – bubblegum flavored – and squinted out over the water. The sun was reflecting onto it, causing a glare. He glanced at Hermione licking gingerly at her raspberry sorbet, looking utterly content.

 

“What should we do next weekend?” Harry suddenly asked.

 

“Uh, go to my wedding, mate,” Ron reminded him.

 

“I thought that was the weekend _after_.”

 

“No, it's next weekend,” Susan laughed. “Sunday. Then Ron and I are off to Ireland for a little honeymoon for a week. We're going to go Muggle-style and tour through it.”

 

“Malfoy, you coming to the stag party?” Ron asked. “It's Friday.”

 

Surprised at being invited, Draco hedged, “What are you going to be doing?”

 

“I can't say it in front of the _hens_ ,” Ron scoffed. “It's top secret _man_ stuff.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You're going to go drinking,” she huffed. “And then possibly end up at a strip club. There is absolutely nothing _top secret_ about that.”

 

“Top. Secret. Man. Stuff,” Ron said, gravely.

 

“You're all idiots if you think we don't know what you lot are doing on those things,” Ginny muttered.

 

“Top. Secret. Man. Stuff,” Harry said, saying it in tandem with Ron that time.

 

“Oh, good Lord, they've finally synergized,” Hermione intoned, issuing a long-suffering sigh.

 

“Top. Secret. Man. Stuff. Top. Secret. Man. Stuff,” they chanted. Harry gestured at Draco, and he confusedly joined in, sounding far more hesitant than the other two. When Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, he just shrugged helplessly. “Top. Secret. Man. Stuff!”

 

“Morons,” Ginny declared, shaking her head somberly as Susan giggled.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As the sun set, Draco prepared to leave with Hermione. She wanted to walk to the Leaky and then to her flat, claiming it was too nice a day to go through a magical ash-tunnel. As they were leaving, Draco stopped before Harry, fidgeting awkwardly. He let Hermione pull up by the door and start talking to Ginny before he said anything, not particularly wanting her to hear him being _nice_. It might give her false expectations for the rest of the time.

 

“Erm,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Happy Birthday, Potter.”

 

“I thought it was 'Harry,' now,” Harry returned, grinning when Draco flushed a bit. “Thanks, _Draco_.”

 

“I didn't get you anything.”

 

“I know. And you don't have to. I tell them that every year, you know, but they never listen,” Harry sighed. “Besides, I think last night was present enough for the next ten years. Those memories will warm my cold heart even after I'm dead.” His smirk was telling, and when Draco narrowed his eyes at him, he started doing the 'hitch-hiker' to remind him.

 

Draco's eyes closed, and he pulled a slight face as he recalled. Then Harry leaned in, and whispered, “By the way, you're _totally_ the Keeper. Look at you, you're all skinny. And you've got a feminine face.”

 

“I do _not_ \--”

 

“Ginny,” Harry called. “How would you describe Draco Malfoy's face?”

 

“Pretty,” she returned, promptly.

 

Harry turned back to him, prodding his finger into Draco's chest with a smug grin. “Keeper, for life. See you later, Draco.”

 

Hermione asked him what he was scowling about as they left, but he refused to answer.

 


	35. Revelations

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Revelations**

 

…

 

She'd let Draco walk her home that Sunday night, and kissed him outside of her building. Then she'd walked inside, and when she turned a bit to glance over her shoulder, he was still standing outside, watching her go in with a dumb little smile on his face. Hermione paused, watching him as he started to turn away, and then she cursed a bit and ran back outside to catch him before he Apparated.

 

He'd pulled out his wand and was set to use it when she suddenly grabbed his sleeve. Blinking, Draco lowered his wand, turning to her with lifted eyebrows. “What?” he asked, softly.

 

She shifted a bit, looking shy but exhilarated. “Come in,” she said.

 

His eyebrows shot up damn near to his hairline – he'd assumed that while she was sober, it would be a while before they did anything remotely sexy again – but the shock soon passed as his smile widened. “Are you sure?” he asked, glancing up at her building. As much as he _desperately_ wanted to go inside with her, he didn't want a repeat of what happened last time.

 

“Yes,” she affirmed, without hesitation. Then she'd turned, her hand still anchored to his sleeve, and pulled him inside and up the stairs.

 

She'd barely gotten the front door closed before they were kissing. They were sweet and lingering, the kind that made warmth coil in her belly, like drinking good Firewhiskey. It wasn't desperate and clawing like the first time, and for a while she just let him kiss her against the hallway wall, his fingers tangled with hers and seemingly with no interest of exploring anywhere else.

 

“Hermione... This question has been bothering me all day,” he murmured against her lips.

 

“What?”

 

He pulled back a bit. “Did you swallow?”

 

She was shocked for a second before she burst out laughing, and he swiftly joined her, pulling his hands from hers to wrap them around her waist. “Yes,” she told him, when the laughter had diminished to warm chuckles. “What was I going to do, spit it up on the floor?”

 

“Why didn't we do anything, after that?” he wondered.

 

“You passed out.” At his dumbstruck look, she started laughing again. “Yes, yes, you did. You came and then I looked up and you were lying there, like--” She closed her eyes and opened her mouth wide, tilting her head back and affecting a snore.

 

“Merlin,” he said, mortified. “Please tell me you're giving me a chance to redeem myself.”

 

Her smile started small, and spread slowly. “Let me take a shower, and you can show me just how badly you want to redeem yourself,” she suggested, coyly.

 

That tone of voice went straight to his groin, and he swallowed a pained groan as he felt himself react. “I'm not sure you're ready for what my mouth can do to you,” he murmured. “It's not something for mere mortals, you know.” He grimaced a bit as she pinched his side in warning, and grinned. “I'm just trying to warn you.”

 

She pushed him away from her, and headed for the bathroom. “Three minutes,” she said, pointing at him. Then the door shut.

 

Three minutes.

 

Since he didn't have a shower, he used his wand to try and freshen up a bit down there, because hell – this wasn't about her sucking him off, but if it _led there_ , he didn't exactly want to _dissuade her from continuing_. He was a little surprised that she'd been able to stomach it after three hours of dancing himself into a ball of sweat, but then, she'd been drunk out of her mind. Drunks weren't exactly discerning connoisseurs of _Things That Should Definitely Go In My Mouth_. He divested himself of his (now fixed) shirt, before she went and snapped all the buttons off again, and wasted the last couple of minutes in his underwear, reading the backs of her DVDs.

 

The door to the bathroom opened, and he turned, his mouth going a little dry when he saw her standing in the doorway of her bedroom in just a towel. Her hair was still wet and plastered down her back.

 

“Ready?” she asked, grin widening.

 

“ _So_ ready,” he breathed, moving towards her and picking her up with a squeal.

 

“Draco, my towel!” she complained, as he dropped her on the bed.

 

He gave her a _look_. “Did you think that was going to _stay on_?”

 

“Oh, right.”

 

He huffed an incredulous laugh and crawled over her, kissing her hard enough to slowly push her back down against the bed. “Never... understand... you,” he said, between kisses. His mouth moved down her jaw as his hand smoothed up the inside of her leg. He shoved the towel out of the way, his fingers gently brushing over the short curls, there. “Scoot up the bed,” he demanded, biting at her collarbone.

 

“Ah,” she hissed, but did as he asked, crawling backwards until her head was towards the pillows. He stayed where he was, though, pressing hot kisses against her skin as she moved beneath him.

 

As soon as she was high enough, he pressed his hands beneath her knees, pushing them up and away from each other to give himself room. Glancing up at her and noticing the faint flush to her face, he smirked and puckered his lips, blowing against her.

 

She jolted a bit, and shot him a glare. “Quit teasing,” she ordered, lifting her foot to smack his back with her heel.

 

“It's not my fault you're up there, all worried,” he said, pressing a kiss against the inside of her knee. He bit at the skin there, lightly, watching her hips shift impatiently. “Either worried I won't like the looks of it or the taste, I'm guessing. Am I guessing right?”

 

“You are an _utter_ prat.”

 

He laughed, nipping and kissing his way down the inside of her thigh. “You're gorgeous,” he assured her, and used his thumbs to pull her apart as his head dipped down, running his tongue up the length of her slit. Her hips came off the bed as she gasped, and he used one hand to grab her hip and pin her down. “And you taste amazing.”

 

“ _Stop_ ,” she pleaded, turning red. “I don't need reassuring, I _promise._ ”

 

His response was a faint chuckle before he pressed his mouth against her, again, and soon anything she might have said was lost in a bevy of moans as her thighs pulled in, trying to close around his ears. She crossed her ankles behind his back as her hands twisted in the damp towel beneath her.

 

It wasn't too long before her back was arching, her thighs coming in so tight that she was pretty sure she was causing a crack to appear in skull. He didn't stop, having found the spot that made her go crazy; he was working on it relentlessly, driving her up, and up, and up – and then over. “Oh, _God_ , Draco,” she sighed, and then the tension broke and she was writhing beneath him like a pit of snakes, dimly aware of his hands trying to keep her hips grounded to the bed.

 

He continued on even as she came down, and she jerked a bit beneath him, trying to pull up on the bed a bit to escape the sensation. His hands tightened around her hips, and her legs trembled as she twisted almost desperately beneath him.

 

“Can't--” she whined, and a second later he was drawing her through another one, a little less amazing than the first, but it left her speechless all the same.

 

She seemed to sense his stubbornness, then, and pushed at his head. Clearly her thighs made excellent earmuffs, because he'd shown no sign of hearing anything else she'd moaned or said. Threading her fingers through his hair to pull him off of her, she spread her legs a bit, off his ears. “Draco, you're going to _kill_ me.”

 

He finally lifted himself up, licking his lips a bit and releasing her hips. He scrubbed his mouth and chin with the back of his hand before quickly moving up the bed to kiss her. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her thigh, feel the heat of it through the thin material of his underwear. “Am I redeemed?” he whispered, breathlessly.

 

“ _So_ redeemed,” she assured him, reaching down to tug his underwear off.

 

Despite his obvious need, he entered her slowly, pausing for a few minutes before picking up a leisurely rhythm against her. She was more vocal in general after her own climax, still sensitive, gasping and moaning with every little move he made. He made a mental note to do everything in that same order every single time. Or maybe just tie her to the bed one day and force orgasm after orgasm out of her. He wondered if he could _ever_ manage to get her to agree with that.

 

He hoped so. Please, Merlin.

 

He braced his elbows against the bed on either side of her, looking down at her face as they moved together, enjoying the way her mouth would fall open slightly whenever he sank into her – the way her eyes went half-lidded at the same time. He tried to remember the last time sex had felt this amazing, and couldn't. Not the orgasm part, because that pretty much unilaterally felt amazing every time, but the _sex_ part. The part before the end.

 

Her thighs shifted, and he felt her heel run up the backside of his own thigh, and he shuddered a bit. No, it had definitely never been like this. He never wanted to stop. He wanted to do this every day. _Several_ times a day.

 

His hips stuttered against her, and he groaned as he came, sinking in deep and letting his head drop against her shoulder. He could smell pears in her shampoo. He sank down against her, utterly spent, and felt her legs fold around his hips almost possessively. He wondered when he'd last thought of their marriage in terms of a short-term business deal – when was the last time he'd thought about satisfying the terms of the contract so they could divorce?

 

He couldn't remember the precise moment, but at some point along the way, he'd stopped.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After they'd recuperated, he got up, kissing her fondly and lingeringly, and then he was getting dressed to leave. Hermione had swallowed as she watched him, warring between her usual desire to sleep alone and the fact that she knew he'd want to stay.

 

She sat up as he picked up his pants, and grabbed his hand. He looked at her, his eyebrows drawing together. They shot up his forehead as she plucked the pants from his grip and dropped them back on the floor. Silent, she lifted up the corner of the blankets – throwing her towel over the bedpost – and used their joined hands to draw him back to the bed.

 

“Are you sure?” he whispered, though he slid in.

 

“Just stay on _your side_ ,” she returned, smiling. “If I wake up at the edge of the bed with you plastered against my back, again, I'm kicking you out of my sleep-time _permanently_.”

 

“If you'd quit wriggling away, I wouldn't end up pinning you to the edge of the bed,” he defended.

 

“You're _too hot_ ,” she complained, and then rolled her eyes when he grinned. “And not in the good way. I hate being hot when I'm trying to sleep. I can't fall asleep when I feel moist and sticky. It's awful.”

 

He looked thoughtful for a second, and then murmured, “One second.”

 

He rolled out of bed, and searched on the floor for something. He popped up with his wand, and before Hermione could tell him not to do whatever stupid thing he was thinking of doing, he'd waved it around with a faint mutter, and a chill rapidly fell over the room. “Augh--” she choked out, gathering the blankets around her. “What are you _doing_?”

 

“Making cuddling more appealing.” He jumped back into the bed with a dumb grin on his face.

 

“You're an absolute idiot,” she hissed.

 

“An absolute idiot with a body like a _furnace_ ,” he pointed out, spreading his arms towards her. She glared at him and begrudgingly scootched towards him. He wriggled down onto his side, putting his arm out. She pillowed her head on it, eyes narrowed.

 

He bounced his eyebrows at her a bit, and she couldn't help snorting as she pressed more firmly against him. “You're so annoying.”

 

“I know,” he said, smugly, folding his other arm around her.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

At some point, the charm must have worn off, because when her alarm went off the next morning, all she could register was that she was uncomfortably warm. For such a pale little man, she hadn't really thought that Draco would be so _ungodly_ hot. She could feel that her skin beneath his arm was moist and unpleasantly sticky with her own sweat, and made a face.

 

 _This_ was going to take some getting used to, if she had to commit ten years to it. Maybe she'd just start buying a bunch of fans. Or they could move to Greenland and just commute back to London every day.

 

She started to sit up, and he grumbled, trying to pull her back down. “I have to get ready for work,” she sighed, trying in vain to remove his arm – which was suddenly and inexplicably made of _flesh-covered steel_ – from her waist.

 

“No, y'don't,” he muttered, eyes still closed. “S'day after Potter's birthday. Bank hol'day. Ministry closed.”

 

“Oh,” she said. Right. It wasn't like her to forget something like that. Then again, she had been a little distracted the past few days. She laid back down, groaning a bit as Draco pulled her to him again. “You are _boiling_. What is _wrong_ with you? It's like you have a fever, but all the time.”

 

“Cast it. Charm,” he snuffled happily into her hair.

 

“No. I'm going to the loo. Lower your core body temperature somehow in the next two minutes,” she ordered, wriggling free of his arm and disappearing down the hallway.

 

When she reappeared a few minutes later, he'd cast the chill charm again, and she'd pissed and moaned about lying in so unreasonably late – though, in the end, she'd ended up in the bed again, half pulled by him and half chased in by the cold. She only let him get away with another hour and a half of drowsing, and then she'd shaken him awake, declaring that if he was going to stay in her flat that day, he was going to help her _clean_ it.

 

Suddenly finding that his schedule was _exceedingly full_ , Draco had made his get-away right after tea, kissing her sweetly in front of the Floo before he went.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After the long weekend, she was more than ready to go back to work on Tuesday. And, she was satisfied to note, it was a bland week where nothing much happened. She was all set to have a bland Friday (followed by a nice stay-in Saturday with her books before she'd have to brave the party scene again at the wedding) when an owl arrived and landed on the edge of her desk. Hermione tensed slightly when she recognized Prissy, her good mood swiftly getting sucked down the metaphorical drain. She took the letter carefully, avoiding the owl's beak, and opened it up at her desk.

 

Simple enough. Just an invite over that night for some late tea, since they 'hadn't caught up in so long'. Draco had agreed to go to Ron's stag party, so he wouldn't be there.

 

It would be a good opportunity to get some answers.

 

She accepted, betraying nothing, although she couldn't be certain that Draco hadn't already told his mother. However, she somehow doubted it. He was probably hoping that his impassioned speech the week prior had made her change her mind about getting to the bottom of this, and she certainly hadn't indicated at any point over the weekend that she was still intent on pursuing it. Maybe Harry and Ron would use any sober moments at the stag party to illuminate Draco as to just what kind of person he was marrying.

 

Hermione Granger _never_ let sleeping dogs lie.

 

She Flooed directly to the manor, schooling her face into a polite smile when Narcissa greeted her with the customary kisses. As the blonde woman stepped back and got a good look at her, though, her smile faltered. “Hermione?” she asked, blinking a bit.

 

“Narcissa...” She had to remind herself that this woman was _not_ the fragile, spun-glass little doll her husband and son obviously thought she was. She let the polite smile drop. “We have to talk.”

 

The smile dimmed a bit further. “Certainly,” she said, turning and walking away.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes a bit, but knew better than to argue. Women like Narcissa refused to have conversations outside of certain conversation-appropriate scenarios, and unfortunately, in _this_ instance, that meant that she had to bring Hermione into a room and have tea with her. She didn't really profess to understand all the dumb little rules the elite pureblood caste followed, but at this point she'd given up on trying to reform any of it.

 

Following her quietly, she held her tongue as her future mother-in-law ordered tea and fussed about with the snacks. As if any of that mattered.

 

Finally, they were both sitting, and there was nothing left to fuss over. Just the damning silence and whatever ugly stuff was laying on the far side of it. Narcissa certainly didn't look eager to try and jump into things, so Hermione sighed and decided to take the lead.

 

She didn't want to waste any time, so she just said, “I know you tampered with my match. And I know that you bribed Ministry officials to change it.”

 

Narcissa licked her lips, a tic that Hermione had never seen her exhibit before, and slowly put her teacup into its saucer. “Hermione, what an accusation,” she said, gently, frowning a bit. “I must confess, I'm a little upset to hear you say--”

 

“I already asked Draco,” she cut in, firmly. “And I know it's true.”

 

The Slytherin woman's mouth snapped shut with an audible _click_ , her eyes widening just a fraction. “I see,” she said, neutrally. “And what, exactly, did he--”

 

“Why did you do it?” Hermione asked, impatiently. “I don't want to sit here and try and prove to you what we both know you did. It's a waste of time, and I'm already a little out of sorts, knowing what happened, so can you just stop acting and tell me _why_?”

 

“Why what, dear?” Narcissa murmured.

 

“ _Why_ did you go to such lengths to match me with Draco?” Hermione snapped, and felt another twinge of guilt when Narcissa flinched ever-so-slightly at her volume. “You knew we hated each other in school. You knew neither of us wanted to do this.”

 

“Just because you don't want something doesn't mean it's not good for you,” she responded, straightening her spine a bit and lifting her chin.

 

Hermione squinted at her. “What are you on about?”

 

Narcissa set her saucer down on the side table, leaning forward a bit. “We were as stunned as you were when the law passed. We had to act quickly to ensure Draco the best match,” she said, earnestly. At Hermione's incredulous look, she explained, patient, “You were talented, reasonably good-looking, and intelligent. You were clearly the best of the lot.”

 

Hermione stared at her, frozen.

 

“And you had excellent personal attributes that I thought would provide a stabilizing force for Draco. You're compassionate, forward-minded, and quick-witted.”

 

“Let me... see if I have this correctly,” Hermione said, slowly, holding up a hand to stop Narcissa from saying any more. “I was selected from all other potential Muggle-born or Half-blooded witches because you personally believed me to be the best dirty-blooded broodmare available to sire the next Malfoy generation?”

 

The older woman shot her a dirty look. “You don't have to make it sound so sordid,” she said, and Hermione watched two red splotches appear at her cheeks. She'd never seen Narcissa look this genuinely upset, before. “That was one of many reasons.”

 

“The others being?”

 

“You were suited for Draco,” Narcissa explained, although far less patient, now. “And I contacted our family Divinations witch, and--”

 

“Oh, my God,” Hermione muttered.

 

“She assured me that she saw an excellent future for you two,” she continued, shooting Hermione a tired glare. She knew how Hermione felt about such practices, but Narcissa didn't see any reason to believe that Divination was any less valuable than other forms of magic. “And that you would have three healthy children. Three! That's so rare for the Malfoy family, don't you understand?”

 

“You only need two to appease the law,” Hermione reminded her.

 

“You don't divorce,” Narcissa assured her. “You become very devoted to each other. And Draco's a good man, he'll protect you like Lucius did us--”

 

“I should _bloody well hope he doesn't_ ,” she snapped, interrupting her. “Your _husband_ followed a madman nearly to his _death_ , and he was going to drag you along with him. If that's your idea of _protection_ , then I'd much rather Draco have nothing to do with mine.”

 

The blonde woman's expression became so icy cold that Hermione felt the tea curdle in her stomach. She met Narcissa's gaze squarely, refusing to balk, although privately she reflected that Narcissa could be just as flat-out terrifying as her husband. The fact that she rarely exercised that power made her all the more dangerous, Hermione supposed.

 

“My husband sacrificed himself time and again to mitigate the damage done to Draco and I because of his mistake. His _mistake_ , Hermione,” Narcissa said, savagely cutting the younger witch off as she tried to respond. “I didn't say he was infallible, did I? And Merlin knows we've all paid dearly for those crimes.”

 

“Have you?” Hermione whispered. “Have you, really? Pray tell, what have _you_ paid for all the lives lost in this war? For all the innocence that has been _shattered_ because of your husband's fanatical obsession with the genocide of people like me?” Swallowing, she shook her head, feeling tears spring to her eyes. She tried to will them away; she didn't want to cry in front of this woman, not now. Narcissa's icy expression cracked a bit as she spoke, and Hermione considered stopping, but the old hurt and anger spurred her on. Her voice was hoarse as she continued. “I was _tortured_. In your _house_. You watched. You _watched_ your sister torture me, and you did nothing. You didn't even look like it particularly bothered you. And that isn't even the _worst_ thing this family did.”

 

Narcissa was breathing rapidly, her blue eyes wider than usual as she watched Hermione, almost like she considered the younger witch to be a dangerous, unpredictable animal.

 

“He tortured people, your husband. Innocent people. Muggles. People that you and your kind believe are no better than animals,” Hermione continued, feeling her voice grow calmer as she spoke. “Do you know what Muggles call it when a person tortures an innocent animal? Sociopathy. Psychopathy. People who display that behavior? They're considered _diseased_. Their minds are not intact. Because it's unnatural and _evil_ to not feel empathy for your fellow living beings. People who do things like that in the Muggle world are _locked up_ for what they do to others. Whereas your husband got to skip out on his sentence simply because _you_ decided last minute that Draco was more important than the _wrongful murder_ of everyone that isn't like you.”

 

She realized that Narcissa was breathing harder and faster, and for a second she worried the woman was hyperventilating. “You don't know what we went through,” she whispered, her voice tremulous and a tad desperate. “The pain and the fear that we endured in our own home.”

 

“It was no greater than the pain and the fear you inflicted outside it,” Hermione said, flatly.

 

Narcissa swallowed, and cast Hermione a bitter look. “What do you want me to say, Hermione?” she asked, softly, some of her usual sweetness returning to her voice. It made her sound like Bellatrix, that mixture of sweetness and fury. “That I'm _sorry_ for believing differently than you? That I'm sorry I believed in a better world? That I'm sorry I trusted my husband to help lead us there?”

 

“Do you _feel_ sorry?” Hermione asked. Her own tone sounded detached. Bland, even. “When you saw your sister torture a teenager – a girl your own son's age, a _minor –_ on your drawing room floor, did you feel anything except fear for yourself?”

 

“If you're trying to insinuate that I felt any joy in your torture,” Narcissa bit out, her voice tight. Her breaths were coming shorter, more rapidly. “Then I'm sorry to disappoint you. I did not.”

 

“But do you feel _remorse_?” Hermione asked, patiently.

 

For a moment, they were both just frozen, staring at each other over the untouched cookies and the barely-touched tea. She realized that Narcissa was still breathing too fast and too hard, and she frowned, setting her saucer of tea down on the table. She reached out to the woman, who flinched back almost violently. Slowly and with the utmost care to make it clear she wasn't going to hurt her, Hermione crouched down in front of her, trying to maintain eye contact. Her hands framed the woman's face.

 

She looked into Narcissa's sightless gaze, feeling a trickle of guilt. The woman's hands were curled so tightly into her dress that her knuckles had gone white.

 

Firmly and evenly, she said, “Narcissa, you need to control your breathing. Breathe in slowly on the count of five, alright? One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” The woman sucked in a ragged breath, trying to do it as slowly as Hermione dictated. “Hold it. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Now exhale, slow. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”

 

Narcissa's exhale was shaky, almost explosive. Hermione led her through the next few breaths. She didn't think much of it when tears suddenly streaked down her beautiful, porcelain face – that was a common side-effect of a panic attack.

 

She pulled out her wand, and charmed one of the tea towels to be wet and cool. She pressed it gently against Narcissa's face and neck. “Keep breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Five,” she counted, calmly.

 

It was several minutes before Narcissa was breathing more-or-less normally, perhaps a little more raggedly than usual, but no longer at the suffocating pace from before. Her face had started to crumple with tears, and she ducked her head to hide it from Hermione, pressing her hand to her mouth. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, mortified. “I don't know what came over me.”

 

“It's called a panic attack,” Hermione said, quietly. “It's when your body tells you you're in danger, even though you're not, and you get conflicting messages from your brain about whether or not you truly are. This causes an adrenaline spike that can make you feel like you are about to die.”

 

The woman swallowed, a painful gulp Hermione heard. “How did you know what to do?”

 

She laughed, hollowly. “I was in the war, too, Narcissa. So was everyone else I know. The first year after it was all done, it was a fairly common occurrence. They're not fatal, but they can be distressing.”

 

“Why did you stay?”

 

Hermione frowned at her. “You don't leave someone _alone_ when they're having a panic attack. They could pass out and hurt themselves.” Honestly.

 

Narcissa made a small, broken noise, that sounded like half a sob and half a laugh. “Doesn't it get tiring, caring about other people?” she asked, her tone almost sarcastic. “Don't you run out of energy, before long?”

 

“No,” Hermione said, slowly. What an odd question.

 

“You did that after the Battle,” Narcissa whispered. “Do you remember what you did?”

 

“What?”

 

“They were passing out water to everyone, and offering medical assistance.” Narcissa's voice was so soft, she could barely hear it. “I kept waiting for someone to come over and arrest us, but no one did. No one would even look at us. Draco had a broken nose and his hand was twisted on his wrist unnaturally, but I was afraid to ask anyone for help.”

 

Hermione frowned, dimly recalling going around the Great Hall with the healers and trying to get people into slightly better shape before the actual recovery troops arrived. It was mostly a blur. She supposed she did remember seeing Draco's pale, traumatized face, but it had just been one of many.

 

“Then you came, with a jug of water, and you set it next to us. You didn't even say anything.” Narcissa's head ducked further, and she wiped at her eyes. “You grabbed his chin and forced his head up, fixing his nose. We thought you were going to hex him when you pulled that wand out, but none of us had our wands. Lucius, I think, almost reared back to hit you...”

 

Fallen utterly still, Hermione combed through her memory of that moment. She'd dealt with so much death at the time, and had seen so many of her friends' lifeless bodies. She couldn't remember much aside from being awash with grief.

 

Helping the injured was a way to fill her mind with busy work. Draco hadn't been special, just another task.

 

“But then you said, _Episkey_. And you _Ferula_ 'd his wrist. And then you walked away, without a word. But I thought, maybe – maybe you cared for Draco, too, in your own way?” She looked up, searching Hermione's face almost desperately, for some hint.

 

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “No, I didn't. I barely even remember it. I watched a lot of my friends die, that day. I had to identify their broken corpses. I was helping whoever I could see.”

 

“That moment meant the world, to me.”

 

“And absolutely nothing to me,” Hermione whispered. “I didn't even think about you, again, until your trial.”

 

Narcissa took in another shaky breath, her eyes red-rimmed. “I thought you could heal him, like you did that day. On the inside.”

 

“Draco has to heal himself.” The harshness of Hermione's tone made the blonde flinch a bit. “And so do you. So did all of us. You're stuck like this because you keep hiding from what happened, and what you did. It happened, Narcissa. It's done. Don't ignore it; grow! Become _better_.”

 

“Better.”

 

“Yes. Become better people. You have all the wealth and influence in the world. You could really change a lot of lives. You could stop atrocities that are happening in the world _right now_. The Wizarding War ended, but outside of your little _bubble_ , people are still dying before their time, every single day. People still feel terror on a constant basis. They're starving to death, or killing each other. Parents are losing their _children_ to starvation and land-mines and war all the _time_. It's never _truly_ over, not for them. And not for _you_. The war wasn't just a sordid chapter in the book of your life, here, one that you can close and never think about again. There's no happy ending, or a neat conclusion. There's just life, and what you make of it.” She folded up the damp tea towel, and put it in Narcissa's hand. “So _make_ something.”

 

With that, Hermione turned, heading towards the door. When she glanced back, Narcissa was just staring at the tea towel, her expression vacant.

 

She headed back to the Floo, feeling nauseous. And, yes, tired. She felt tired.

 

She went to her flat and fed Crookshanks. Then she left Draco a note, not sure if he'd come back there to find her. She tried to keep it brief – She'd talked to Narcissa, he might want to go see her, and she'd be staying with her parents until Ron's wedding on Sunday.

 

After leaving Crookshanks extra food, she grabbed a change of clothes and Flooed to her childhood home. She felt like a stupid little child, but she wanted her Dad.

 


	36. Fears and Failures

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Fears and Failures**

 

…

 

When she appeared from the Floo in the middle of dinner, looking wan and faintly nauseated, Rose had taken one look at her and immediately grabbed a tin of condensed soup. Her father just watched her, looking faintly off-kilter like he always seemed to, these days. He didn't say a word as his wife fussed over Hermione, force-feeding her soup and tea until she was fairly sure her bladder was going to rupture.

 

When she complained that she felt like she might throw up, it had sent her mother running to the nearest open chemist.

 

Then he pounced.

 

“What happened?” he asked, placing himself on the recliner opposite the couch, where Hermione was propped up with forty pillows and no less than ten blankets. She clutched at her tea, mentally sifting through what she should tell him, and he sighed, sounding pained. “Hermione, I don't like this. You haven't been _this_ secretive since the war. Do you have any idea how much it scares me to see you like this, again? The last time you were like this, I woke up missing a year of my life, in _Australia_.”

 

“You always liked Australia.”

 

“That's not the part I'm objecting to, as you well know,” he said, quietly. When Hermione had first told her recently unObliviated parents of her previous plan to remove all memories of her – for their protection and in the event of her death – he'd walked away from her, into his bedroom, and locked the door.

 

And then she'd heard him crying. He kept it quiet, but it had still filtered out into the hallway.

 

Swallowing, she looked down at the amber liquid of her tea, her lips trembling. “I didn't want you to-- you have no idea what they could have done to you,” she whispered.

 

“What did they do to _you_?” he returned, and the ache in his voice made her start to cry. “You're my child. I protect _you_ , not the other way around.” His voice broke, a little. She heard the recliner squeak in protest as he suddenly got up, closing the distance between them.

 

The tea was plucked from her hands, and she turned against him, blindly seeking the comfort for the pain she'd had to set aside just an hour earlier to calm Narcissa's panic attack. She'd never told her parents about the horrors of the war. Hell, they saw the news. They knew what war was. They didn't have to know the dirty details, like that there was a spell that made you hurt so badly you prayed for death.

 

But neither of them were stupid enough to delude themselves too much. Magic was a dangerous Other, and Rose and David Granger were far too educated. They understood that cruelty only knew the limits of imagination. Humanity, magical or not, had quite a lot of both.

 

The first year after the war had been the toughest. She'd slogged through several months of rebuilding Hogwarts and an awkward half-attempt at starting a relationship with Ron, but neither of them could look at each other without seeing the echoes of all the dead they'd accumulated. She'd spent all those months living at her parents', where she sometimes woke up screaming or descended into panic attacks at the appropriate triggers – a primarily green firework on New Year's Eve had lit up the front yard through the living room window and she'd gone so unhinged that her mother had braved the Floo by herself for the very first time to try and find Harry Potter.

 

It had taken nearly an hour, but when they burst back through the Floo, Harry's eyes wide with concern, Hermione had just burst into tears. She couldn't remember ever feeling so _helpless_. That a _firework_ could send her into a state of blind panic was terrifying and the absolute peak of embarrassing. She remembered Harry holding her, rocking back and forth a little as her dad asked him desperate questions that Harry answered as evasively and uninformatively as he could.

 

She'd left for Barcelona because she was afraid that if she stayed, she wouldn't get better. So maybe that made her a coward, too.

 

Her parents hadn't minded, since she came back vastly improved. A little more somber than she'd maybe once been, but at least there had been a sense of _peace_ about her. Until now, apparently. Maybe she hadn't let the past go as well as she thought.

 

David pressed, softly, “What happened?”

 

She felt as though a dam was breaking loose in her mind. One second she was trying to hold it back, and the next, she was being dragged swiftly downstream. And she told him _everything_.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“In _that_ house? The one we had tea at?” Rose was demanding. She was trying to stir sugar into her tea, and her trembling hands was making a racket that could be heard across the house. Hermione laid tiredly on the couch, listening dumbly as her parents tried to have a hushed conversation in the kitchen. “I go over there almost every weekend, how-- How?”

 

The clattering of the spoon stopped echoing around, so she knew her Dad must have taken the mug away from her. “Later,” he said, quietly.

 

“She's supposed to get _married_ there,” she said, and her voice was _wretched_. Hermione closed her eyes, drawing one of the blankets over her head. She should have told them both sooner. She didn't know why she hadn't. No, she did, but in the wake of her parents' utter misery over the revelation, somehow the reason as to _why_ seemed paltry and weak. Especially so because she'd ended up caving, so if there had ever once been a noble purpose behind it, it was moot, now.

 

The doorbell rang, and she heard her mom sniffle desperately, trying to get calm again.

 

The door in the foyer opened, and she heard her dad, stiff: “Oh. It's you.”

 

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She'd _told_ Draco to go talk to his mother. Narcissa wasn't really in any sort of position to have to spend time alone. She needed a network. She almost wanted to get up and yell at him for leaving his mother alone in that state, but then a chilly voice cut through her thoughts like an machete through butter.

 

“Yes, Mr. Granger,” Lucius drawled. The drawl was lazy, but there was no mistaking the ice that permeated it. “I need to speak with your daughter. I understand she's here.”

 

“She is, and I don't think she's in the mood for visitors,” David said, gruffly. “And it's quite late. If you'll--”

 

“Make no mistake, Mr. Granger.” His words came out in a snap – still in that pureblood, rich boy drawl, but unmistakably the voice of a man who'd come through the far side of the war by his own cunning, not through dumb luck. “I am only standing outside of your front door and ringing for entry because it is a courtesy. I could have easily appeared inside your house. I would much prefer to be within your house on your invitation, but _rest assured_ that within the next thirty seconds, I will be inside.”

 

“What's going on, David?” Rose whispered, coming out of the kitchen to join her husband in the foyer.

 

“Don't threaten me,” she heard her father say, quietly. “And you will stay the _fuck_ away from my daughter.”

 

“My _daughter-in-law_ ,” Lucius corrected, and Hermione could hear the sneer. She got up, reaching for her wand. “Has questions to answer, and I'm not leaving without getting those answers. If I have to temporarily remove you as an obstruction, then so be it--”

 

Hermione stepped into the foyer, her eyes still red-rimmed from her bout of sobbing. “Don't threaten my father, you son of a bitch,” she grit out. “Or it will be the _last_ thing you ever do.”

 

“Hermione, go upstairs,” David said, not taking his eyes from the former Death Eater.

 

“Put that wand away, you silly girl,” Lucius snapped. A few months ago, she would have said that he looked bored, or bland, even. Now, she could detect the raging fury beneath the facade, and she'd be lying if she said it didn't scare the utter unholy shit out of her. “I'm not here to get into a duel with a child.”

 

“Good thing, too,” Hermione said, flashing her left hand at him. “Don't suppose this ring protects _you_?”

 

His eyes narrowed. “There are other ways to hurt you,” he promised, and his eyes just barely flicked to her mother and father. “For the sake of our future together as one family, I beg of you to not upset me any further, tonight. My wife is in hysterics.”

 

“As well she should be,” David said, stonily. “What kind of monsters torture a kid?”

 

“The kind of monsters that can set aside the mask of humanity long enough to turn this house into a pile of cinders.” The snap in his tone made every Granger there go rigid. “Your daughter _did_ manage to beat us, if it comforts you. I have no doubt that should she ever desire to end the ensuing conversation, she could do so. Hermione, I will be waiting across the street, _tirelessly_ reminding myself of the reasons for which a gentleman must never hit a woman.”

 

“Why smack her when you can _Crucio_ , right?” Hermione said, in a dry tone. “I mean, why get your hand dirty?”

 

His eyes flashed. “Across the street.” He turned, and walked down the front path. She resisted the urge to send a stunner at his back, her grip on her wand tightening so abruptly she was almost afraid she was going to crack it. Instead, she lowered her wand, inhaling deeply.

 

Even as protected by the ring as she was, she couldn't stop the instinctual, primal fear that clawed at her when Lucius was like that – like the man he'd been, before Voldemort died. Cold and cruel and calculating. Not precisely _eager_ to torture, but not a man who hesitated when given the order to do so, either. She supposed it was only natural to be afraid, on some level, of Lucius Malfoy. The man had survived two wars, and it certainly _was not_ because he was a talentless idiot.

 

And he was going to be her father-in-law. She grit her teeth, feeling the fear of the confrontation ebb away, becoming slowly replaced by annoyance. She didn't want to have to deal with Lucius being a protective little git over Narcissa. She wasn't sure she had the patience.

 

Then again, she hadn't a lot of choices, she supposed. The conversation was going to happen, sooner or later.

 

“Dad,” she began.

 

“No. I'm not letting you go out there,” he said, firmly, closing the door. “No. Absolutely not.”

 

She forced a tight smile, for him. “I'm a witch. A locked door is nothing to me,” she reminded him. “I'll only be fifteen minutes. If you don't see me back here in fifteen minutes, get Harry and tell him to do a full Auror raid on the Manor.”

 

“Five.”

 

“Ten.”

 

He swallowed, and stepped forward to hug her. Her mother's tremulous arms followed suit. “Why did you let me plan this wedding?” she whispered.

 

“We don't have a choice,” Hermione whispered back. “And... And Draco's not-- Draco isn't his father. Dad, you remember what I said, he tried not to identify us that night...” She wasn't sure why she was so desperate to defend him. It didn't matter much to the law if her parents _liked_ Draco.

 

“I remember,” he said, gruffly. “And I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was a terrified kid, just like you.”

 

She nodded, stepping back from the both of them.

 

David pointed at the front door. “But that man, and that woman of his? I'll never forgive them. Never. And you're not having a wedding at that place. I won't give you away at that--” His voice trembled a bit, and he worked to steady it. “ _At that place_.”

 

Hermione nodded again. Then she stepped towards the door, inhaled carefully for fortification, and stepped outside.

 

It was a nice night. Balmy. Almost a little too warm.

 

She crossed the street, out of the range of the lamp posts. She didn't keep her wand extended, but only because the ring was on her hand. If it hadn't been, she wouldn't have fled to her parents'; she would have gone straight to Hogwarts and holed up in McGonagall's office until Ron's wedding.

 

The little park was dark. It was small, and didn't have much in the way of lights. It was really only frequented during the day.

 

She saw his silhouette in the dark beneath a tree, on a bench. Silently, she walked up to the bench and sat down, pressing her hands together between her knees. The cool metal of the ring bit into her finger, and she slouched a bit.

 

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.

 

“We only have about seven minutes before my Dad calls Harry in a panic,” she said, softly.

 

Lucius straightened a bit. “It was impolite of me to threaten him, and your mother. I apologize,” he said, but his voice was still a bit stern and flat. “I am not feeling particularly forgiving.”

 

“She needed to hear it,” Hermione said, just as flatly.

 

“Who are you to decide that?”

 

“The one who was nearly tortured to death in your house,” she snapped. “Or did you do so many that all our faces just blur together?”

 

He tensed, and she heard a faint _squeak_ as he gripped his damnable cane with his leather gloves. “You have very likely sent her to St. Mungo's,” he bit out.

 

“Seven years of ignoring _what happened_ sent her to St. Mungo's! You know, you all could have very well _avoided_ these nasty little reminders of your morally repugnant misdeeds if you hadn't messed around with bribing those Matchmakers in the _first_ place,” she snapped. “Then I'd be _far away_ from all of you.”

 

“She wanted you. Merlin knows why.”

 

“Right, and she didn't care about what _I_ wanted. Good God, are _all_ of you so insufferably self-centered? All because she went and saw some _Divinations fraud_ and I _Episkey'd_ your stupid son's _stupid nose_.”

 

He was quiet a moment. “Do you recall that?”

 

“No,” she said, irritably. She felt a rant building up, and let it loose. “She mentioned it when we talked. Like it was some sort of beacon to her that I was in _secret love_ with your annoying prat of a sprog. You fix _one_ broken nose, and then seven years later you're getting married to the son of the man who tried to single-mindedly murder you and your friends for _years on end_ with all of his twisted little friends. This is _such_ donkey shite.”

 

“So we're in agreement that this is all your doing.”

 

“Oh, _sod off_.”

 

And then, against all her expectations, he actually chuckled. She'd been gearing up for a rant, but the noise sucked all the words right out of her. When it passed, he was silent a beat. “That moment meant a lot to her, in the days before the trial. She considered it to a benediction, of sorts. A sign that we would be spared.”

 

“Go ahead and tell your wife, from me, that Divination is absolute and utter nonsense.”

 

He sighed. “It makes her happy. And occasionally, Divination isn't. It foretold the fall of Voldemort,” he pointed out, softly.

 

“All it did was tell Voldemort that somewhere, someone was going to be born that would eventually do him in. And it provided enough details for him to go and find that infant and imbue him with the very powers of destruction he'd been trying to avoid,” she huffed. “If Voldemort had been the sort of logical fellow who knew better than to listen to fortune tellers, he'd probably have won the _first_ war.”

 

He exhaled roughly, almost a laugh. “Possibly.”

 

Hermione fell silent again. “She said you were going to hit me when I pulled my wand out.”

 

He hesitated. “I think I was going to stand and knock you over,” he said, trying to recall. “Until I saw the look in your eyes. There wasn't any anger there. There wasn't really anything. You'd been emptied.” His thoughtful tone did nothing to dampen the shock of his words.

 

It _was_ an accurate way to put it, she supposed.

 

“She does, you know,” he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear it.

 

She glanced at his profile. It betrayed nothing. “She does, what?”

 

“Feel sorry.”

 

Silence reigned again, and they spent the last four minutes just sitting in quiet reflection, watching the moonlight bathe the grass and the pond. When she stood, he stood with her. “My Dad refuses to give me away at the Manor.”

 

“I'll inform her. Given the circumstances, I do not think we could expect otherwise.” She started to turn away, and he said, “Hermione.”

 

She turned back, wary.

 

“Why did you never tell them, before?” he asked, curious.

 

Hermione sucked in a breath, not sure if she should try to even explain. Or if she _could_. She shook her head a bit, but he just waited, ever patient. “Seeing how the war affected me already hurt them. I would have broken their hearts,” she said, softly. “I remember your face during that last year. Draco was being Crucio'd, wasn't he?”

 

He didn't answer.

 

“That's why I didn't tell them. No parent should have to feel like they so utterly failed to protect their child. I mean, not that anyone can blame them. They've nothing to do with our world. They couldn't have saved me.” She swallowed, pressing her hands together, twining her fingers together and squeezing. “Enough people were hurt in that awful mess that I wanted to at least keep a couple people shielded from it.”

 

“Were they?”

 

“No,” she said, with a soft, raw laugh. “No. I lived here right after. You can only try and joke away a couple episodes of waking up with screaming night terrors before they realize it's not just a bad day, you know? And then in the daytime, there were the panic attacks. I'm sure they guessed, a long time ago.”

 

“Although not the details,” he considered. “That would have been worse, would it not have?”

 

She looked up at the stairs through the branches of the tree, sober. “I don't know. Sometimes I think that leaving it to their imagination was worse. Muggles can get pretty sick during wartime, too, you know. And they have war a lot more often than wizards do. They've gotten really good at it. They don't have _Crucio_ , though, so they have to get creative,” she said, softly. “You ever heard of water-boarding?”

 

His head cocked, slightly. She couldn't see his expression, but she imagined his slow blink. “No.”

 

“They tie you up so you can't move and put a cloth over your face and tilt you back, until you're about twenty degrees from the ground, your feet higher than your head,” she whispered. “And they pour water over it, and the cloth blocks your nose and your mouth and it's all wet, so it feels like you're drowning even when you're not. That's a torture technique Muggles use even to this day to force information out of their enemies. They don't die, but they feel like they are. So you can just keep doing it over and over and over, until you break their will. Until their mind shatters. Actually, I think they can die, but not from the drowning, part. Usually they end up vomiting – a natural reaction to drowning in general, you know – and then they inhale their own vomit, which can kill them. I've heard the psychological effects can last for years.”

 

“Whenever you speak of the extent of Muggle cruelty, I am not sure what lesson you are attempting to relay to me,” Lucius admitted, softly.

 

“I just think it's fascinating, I guess. You Death Eaters think you wrote the book on war-time shenanigans, or something. And you think you're so great, and all. But Muggles are out there every day out-atrocity-ing you. Kind of interesting.”

 

He was silent for a long moment. “What is it, do you suppose, that makes monsters out of men, Hermione?”

 

She shrugged. “Maybe they don't,” she muttered, and then she turned to go. “Maybe during normal life, we're just making men out of monsters.” He didn't try and respond, and she didn't turn back. Rose was waiting nervously by the Floo when she re-entered the house, and after spending another four minutes wrapped in her parents' arms... All she wanted to do was collapse into her bed and sleep.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She managed to get in nearly two full hours of it before someone leaned on her bed, startling her awake. A hand covered her mouth as she opened it to scream, and she heard Draco hiss, “ _Don't_ scream.”

 

Sitting up, she hissed back. “Draco, what the _hell_ \--”

 

“I should be asking _you_ that.”

 

Hermione groaned, flopping back onto the bed. She'd been _sound asleep_. “No. I'm not doing this, right now. Your father came in here and threatened to hex my father to bits if I didn't talk to him, and that conversation already rung me out.”

 

“Well, too bad,” he snapped, in an undertone. “My father may have gotten the explanation he wanted, but _I want to know why my mother is sobbing her fucking brains out_.”

 

“Because she bloody well needs to, Draco, okay? Seven years of repression is finally coming out, so why don't you just _let it_.”

 

He was quiet a beat. When he spoke, his voice was low, and furious. “You had no right to do that.”

 

She sat back up again, getting in his face so she could _seethe_ properly. “I had _every_ right to do that. The woman is going mental and you're letting her. _Also she changed my entire life on a stupid whimsy_.”

 

“So, this was-- what? Revenge?”

 

“Don't be an arse and act like I have no right to be angry over what she did,” Hermione snapped. “Look, I had no intention of bringing all that sordid past up, I really didn't, but after listening to her tripe on why she fudged our match, she brought up something I couldn't ignore, alright? And it just sort of came out.”

 

Draco fell silent for a long beat, and for a second all she could hear was him breathing. She could feel it against her lips, too. It came out in small bursts; he was annoyed. She could almost hear him wondering if he should yell at her or ask her what his mother's reasons were.

 

“Why _did_ she?” he asked. Apparently curiosity had beaten out annoyance.

 

She smelled it, then. “Oh, my God. Are you _drunk_? Are you _drunk from that stupid stag party_?”

 

“No,” he denied. “So why did she?”

 

“I can't believe you came over here, drunk. You didn't Apparate, did you? You can really hurt yourself doing--” Even in the dark, she caught his glower. “Alright, fine. There is a fantastical _grocery list_ of utter goddamn nonsense reasons for why she did it. Let's start at the top: One. She went to a fortune teller, who told her we'd--” She stopped short when she heard him snort. No, he snorted twice. Three times. He was _snickering_. Her tone went flat and icy. “Don't you dare laugh at that, Draco, unless you want to be one limb shorter when you leave this room.”

 

He calmed. “You have to admit, that's kind of funny. A fortune teller. And, you know, you with--”

 

“ _Yes, me with my bloody hatred of Divination_ ,” she snapped, and he shushed her, glancing at her bedroom door anxiously.

 

“Calm down,” he said, exasperated. “You said grocery list. What else?”

 

Hermione felt her lip curl. “She decided I wasn't _too awful-looking_ and that I was reasonably intelligent and magically inclined, and might be a better baby machine than all those other yucky Mudbloods. After all, only the _best_ baby machine for her precious little boy,” she said, her voice reeking of sarcasm.  
  
“Logical.” She punched him in the side, and he bowled over with a pained noise. “Merlin, are you taking punching lessons from _Ginny_ , now?” he hissed.

 

“Are you done being _annoying_?”

 

“Darling, I will _never_ be done being annoying, especially when _you're_ involved. Annoying you is my reason for waking up every morning. Anything else?”

 

“Oh, she thought I had some secret _love_ for you back at the Battle of bloody Hogwarts,” she scoffed. “Because I healed your nose. Do you even remember that? Because _I_ didn't.”

 

He shrugged. “Sure. I thought you were going to hex me.”

 

She flopped back down against the bed. “Your mother's certifiable, Draco. I don't know how else to tell you it.”

 

“In her defense, I'm very handsome. Are you _sure_ you didn't secretly love me at Hogwarts?”

 

“I _should have_ hexed you. Or at least left your nose ugly.”

 

He leaned over her body, planting his hand on the far side of her ribs. “You know, we never did get the opportunity to say thank you for coming over and giving us water and fixing my wrist. Mostly what I remember is wanting to cut my arm off at the elbow if that meant my wrist would stop hurting. Is this the first time you being a good person has come back to bite you in the arse?” he wondered, and some of the fury had left his tone, leaving him sounding more drunkenly amused than anything.

 

She rolled away from him, cranky. He laid down beside her (which was annoying, since this was a _twin_ bed), on his back.

 

“So, yes.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“No,” he said, softly. “I'm still mad at you for saying what you said to my mother.”

 

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “It was true.”

 

“It was mean.”

 

She didn't say anything. She knew. “You can't treat her like she's porcelain, Draco, or else she'll never be strong enough to handle anything. It's not fair to me to have to be careful around her forever,” she mumbled.

 

“Forever?” he scoffed. “You didn't even make it six months.”

 

“I made it four months longer than I _thought_ I would,” she reminded him, tersely. She'd relaxed a bit against him, and this time when he turned to spoon against her, she found that her need to feel close to someone outweighed her annoyance at his effusive body heat.

 

“I don't think I ever said I was sorry for that night,” he whispered against the nape of her neck. She knew, without the clarification, that he was talking about the drawing room. “I didn't do anything to stop it.”

 

“You were scared,” she murmured. His hand snuck around her, and she grasped it in her own. “I don't harbor any ill-will towards you for it. You were just a dumb teenager, like me.”

 

“No one in the world would ever class you as 'dumb.' Was the stinging hex your idea?” She nodded, and felt him get closer, his breath hot against the back of her neck. “That was a good idea.”

 

“You recognized him,” she said. It wasn't really a question. Neither she nor Harry nor Ron had ever questioned that facet of the story. Draco had, without a doubt, recognized every single one of them, and had balked at identifying them. She could still remember the tortured look on his face as he looked at them, almost like he wanted to scream at them for being so stupid as to get caught and then be brought to his house. Like he resented them for making him feel responsible for their future. For the fact that he was going to be the man who sealed their fates.

 

He'd never asked for that responsibility, and she'd always remember that look of hatred and terror warring for supremacy on his face.

 

He was silent a beat. “Yes,” he whispered.

 

“Why didn't you tell her?” she asked, softly. It was that very question – one Harry had never received an answer to – that had prompted the war hero to take the stand to speak _for_ the Malfoys at their trial. That, and Narcissa's late defection.

 

She heard him swallow. “I was scared.”

 

“But if you identified him, your family would have been--”

 

“No, you don't understand,” he said, his voice raw. He swallowed again, painfully. “I was scared that without him, there'd be no one to finally kill that lunatic. I wanted him dead. Gone. Out of my house.” The anger in his tone quickly twisted into hatred, and she felt her mouth go dry. Harry Potter may have outgrown hating, but for Draco, hatred was still alive and well, but this time it was directed at the man he was raised to revere. “And I believed, like everyone else, that Harry bloody Potter was the only one who could do it. And I knew that if Aunt Bella killed him, Voldemort would win. And then I'd probably die. Me and my parents, too.”

 

Her grip on his hand tightened, to a point where she was sure it must be painful. She drew his hand to her chest, against her heart. He pressed his face against her neck, feeling the rapid _thump thump thump_ of her heart against the side of his hand.

 

“I haven't heard you sound like that in years,” she whispered. “Not since the last time you called me a filthy Mudblood. So hateful.”

 

“That was a different hate,” he said, quietly. He'd become a sort-of connoisseur of hate, over the last couple of years of the war. “That was just the simple, dumb hate of a boy who's been told a girl has cooties. This kind of hate is the one that still wakes me up at night, sometimes, just when I can't remember the last time I had. The kind where I'm so out of my bloody mind with terror that I have to hate myself, too, for being such a damnable coward.”

 

“You're not a coward.” She was surprised by the strength with which she asserted that. She'd certainly believed otherwise her entire life, up until just a couple of days ago. “You're really very brave.”

 

He huffed a soft laugh, and his fingers squeezed against hers. “Not brave enough,” he whispered.

 

She had no idea what that meant, and she wasn't sure how to go about asking.

 

At some point, she fell asleep. But when her dad woke her up the next morning, even though her body was still curved against where he'd been, he was gone.

 


	37. How To Pick Battles

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: How To Pick Battles**

 

…

 

She spent Saturday at her parents', helping her mother in the little vegetable garden out back for the bulk of the morning. It was good, mind-numbing work, and some of the anxiety she'd woken up with ( _Where was Draco? Was he still furious at her, now that he'd undoubtedly sobered up?_ ) had largely dissipated by the time her father invited her on his weekly bike-ride, a practice he'd begun a few months prior. Every Saturday at around one in the afternoon, he'd head out on his bike and spend about thirty minutes riding about their little neighborhood.

 

It was part of some good-faith effort to try and get the spare tire off his belly, since his doctor had recently been giving him quite the guilt trip over it. She doubted half an hour of exercise once a week would really do the trick, but she kept her thoughts to herself as they coasted out of his garage and into the street. It was better than _no_ bike ride at all.

 

They mostly rode in silence, weaving up the little residential road towards a slightly busier street that all the local businesses seemed to be centered around. She'd always hated this sleepy little suburb, growing up.

 

Now, she could see why her parents liked it. It was relaxing. The houses all had families in them, with children playing in the yards. The neighbors waved at them a bit as they passed, and there was a sense of community here that one never really felt in London proper. Actually, most people didn't even feel it in the suburbs, either.

 

She followed him onto the busier cross-street, the sidewalk and the road both becoming slightly more congested. They slowed down as they weaved through everything. She wanted to ask why he didn't take an actual trail or something. Going half a kilometer per hour through foot traffic didn't seem like the best way to get a heart rate up.

 

He stopped, suddenly, and parked his bike. Hermione frowned as she pulled up beside him. “Why are we stopping?”

 

She looked up at the place they'd parked in front of, and gaped when she realized it was an ice cream shop. _“Dad!”_ she exclaimed, staring up at it. “You bike _here_? You're supposed to be _losing_ weight!”

 

He put a finger to his lips. “Shh!” He gestured her to follow him, and disappeared inside.

 

She stared at his back as he went in. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, parking her own bike and storming in after him. “ _Please_ tell me you're not going on a ride every Saturday to come and gorge yourself on ice cream,” she huffed as she joined him at the counter, her hands on her hips. “Mum'll have kittens.”

 

“Well, that's as good a reason as any not to tell her.”

 

“ _Dad_.”

 

“Oh, stop, Hermione. I'm getting old. I'm not going to lose any weight,” he huffed, and leaned over the counter. “The strawberry. Two scoops. Jolly good, thank you.” Turning back to Hermione, he said, “I'm an old man, now. If Dr. Patil thinks he can starve me to death just to tack on a couple more years to the end of this life, he's got another one coming. Do you still like Mint Chip?”

 

“You've been lying to Mum all these _five months_?” she demanded.

 

He turned back to the counter. “Two scoops of Mint Chip. Thank you.” He paid, and shot Hermione a wink as she tried to look stern, pressing her lips together to keep the smile back.

 

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” she said begrudgingly taking the ice cream from him.

 

He laughed, then, an odd little giggle that sounded _extremely_ out of place on a man in his early fifties. “I know,” he said, gleefully, taking a big bite out of his. “Listen, don't tell your Mum, or else she'll start starving me right at home.”

 

“You could probably use a little starving.”

 

“Said the USSR to the Ukraine,” he returned, heading outside to sit on the little bench outside the shop.

 

Hermione gasped. “Don't make light. The Holodomor was one of the biggest atrocities ever committed,” she scolded him.

 

“And now you're trying to recreate it in miniscule right in my own home.”

 

“You're impossible. I _should_ tell her. She mentioned to me this morning she wants to start eating more vegetarian,” Hermione threatened, idly. She laughed at the look of abject misery that crossed his face. “Luckily for you, she's not having too much luck with that garden.”

 

He nodded. “Well, someone's been pouring salt water all over it in the dead of night.”

 

She gaped at him, again. “ _Dad_!” He chuckled, and she reached for his ice cream to take it away, but missed as he held it out of reach. “She pours her _heart_ out into that sad little patch of dirt. How could you!” Hermione had always thought that Rose simply wasn't _good_ at gardening, even though her mother devoured magazine after magazine and book after book on the subject, trying to figure out why nothing was working.

 

“It was a hard decision that I _really_ wrestled with,” he said, somberly. “Until that first harvest. After the twelfth day in a row of 'Zucchini, Six Ways,' the moral dilemma all but evaporated. Besides, I don't do it _all_ over. She'd be able to tell something was wrong. I let her have the tomatoes, this year.”

 

“Oh, they're not getting any sun behind the house, anyway,” Hermione sighed.

 

They finished their ice cream slowly, watching the clouds pass over the sun. When they were finally done, he swore her to secrecy before they rode back home. She'd promised _nothing_.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She decided to Floo to her own flat that night, knowing her Mum would expect her to stay through breakfast if she spent the night again. After feeding Crookshanks, she put some hideous-smelling mask on her hair (courtesy of Susan) and wrapped it in plastic food-wrap before curling up on the couch with a book. Since she was halfway there, anyway, she put a little pore mask on her face, too – a light blue affair that was supposed to help slough off the dead skin and make her pores appear smaller.

 

She read through one of the several books she'd been putting off over the last few weekends as she waited for it to dry.

 

Her fireplace erupted to life mid-paragraph, and she blinked up at it, startled, as Ron suddenly appeared. “Hermione, I need-- Oh, _dear Merlin_ ,” he gasped, recoiling from her and lifting a hand to block her horrible visage from his eyes. “What happened to your _face_?” He peered at her through his fingers, grimacing.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. _Boys_. “Your fiancee, as it happens. Also, yes, please, come right in,” she said, sarcastically, throwing up a hand at him in a frustrated gesture.

 

“Sorry, I didn't realize you were auditioning for the Bride of Frankenstein, in here, or else I would have owled ahead.” Harry's abominable horror movie collection was the worst thing to ever happen to her ex-boyfriend, by a wide margin. He used his other hand to cover his nose. “It _smells_ in here, too. What _is_ that? It smells like troll sweat.”

 

She looked for something to throw at him. “What do you _want_ , you _cabbage_?”

 

“Wedding emergency,” he said. He slowly lowered his hand, making a face as he was forced to look at her. “One of Susan's bridesmaids can't make it, her cousin Splinched himself and she had to go to Greece to see him with the rest of her family. Ginny said she couldn't do it, on account of the fact that she plans to be pissed off her arse throughout the ceremony, so...”

 

“What?” Hermione asked, recoiling a bit from him. “Surely Susan has more friends that are better suited. Or family.”

 

“She wanted you or Ginny,” Ron said, laughing softly. “Now that she's been spending so much time with you both, she feels like it's a better fit than some distant schoolmate. Besides, you know she doesn't have family,” he added, in an undertone.

 

She winced. “Sorry, yeah, I – that just came out, you know.” Susan had lost everyone in the _first_ Wizarding War. Her parents, her grandparents, her aunts, her uncles, her cousins – everyone, murdered personally by Voldemort. She'd only had one aunt left, and Amelia Bones had been murdered in sixth year. Susan was so _well-adjusted_ that it was easy to forget.

 

He nodded, and then smiled winningly. “So...?”

 

She wrinkled her nose, feeling her facemask crackle and start to peel there. “Oh, I hate being up in front of everyone,” she whined. “You remember what happened at Harry and Ginny's, I tripped on the walk up! I knocked over that poor flower girl.” It had been the grandchild of one of Molly's friends – the name totally escaped her.

 

“I _did_ tell her about that, and she's willing to risk it. Also, don't knock Victoire over, or Fleur will probably rip your dress into confetti,” Ron advised her. Then he wrinkled his nose apologetically. “Listen, Hermione, can we speed this up to where you say yes? Because I think we _both_ know that I'll end up convincing you to do it.”

 

Hermione made a face at him. “I don't even have the dress,” she said, sullenly.

 

“That's why I'm here. We need to get that thing fitted on you, like, for instance, right now,” he said, pointing back at the Floo. “The designer's over at Susan's waiting.”

 

Her eyes nearly exploded out of her head. “I'm not going over there _like this_.”

 

“Oh, like she cares.”

 

“Ron!”

 

“She'll be happy you're using them,” he wheedled, gently plucking the book out of her hands. He then grabbed her hands, pulling them gently up and together as he cast her a pleading look. “Please, Hermione. She's going bonkers, over there. It's not right to let the bride go spare the night before her wedding. It's inauspicious!”

 

She groaned, but let him pull her through the Floo. He was right, anyway. Susan wouldn't care.

 

Although it wasn't so much Susan that she was worried about, as it was _every other bridesmaid_ in Susan's party, who was also waiting at her flat for the verdict. They all stared in shock at Hermione, and she dimly recognized some Hufflepuffs from her year, including Susan's maid of honor and Neville's fiancee, Hannah Abbot. Hermione froze as she stared back at them all.

 

Slowly, she turned her glare to Ron, who was scratching the back of his neck and looking anywhere else. “She said yes!” he declared, to divert attention.

 

Susan jumped up, and Hermione could see she'd been crying. “Oh, thank you, Hermione, you have no idea what this means to me,” she said, sniffling a bit. “I'm sorry, I know it's stupid, but Ron had exactly four on his side and I didn't want to have only _three_ on mine, weddings can't be uneven or it's bad luck-- is that the hair mask I got you?” she asked, switching thoughts mid-sentence as she blinked at the plastic wrap.

 

Hermione nodded. She was sort of glad for the face mask. It was doing a decent job of concealing her mortification. “And the face stuff, too. Ron was _very insistent_ that I come _right now_ ,” she grit out, sweetly, glaring at Ron again. He found an interesting spot on the ceiling to stare at.

 

Susan stared at her for a beat, and then smiled. Then she laughed, all her prior misery dissipating. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she managed to gasp. “That's my fault, I think. I've been driving him absolutely mad.”

 

She felt herself soften a bit when she looked at Susan's red-rimmed eyes and relieved expression. “It's alright,” she murmured, smiling kindly. “All in the name of looking presentable tomorrow, right? So, where's the dress?” She hadn't even seen a picture of it, yet.

 

The designer – a woman much younger than Hermione was expecting, probably not yet thirty – pulled it out. It was blue (damn Narcissa, because now all she could think about was how awful she supposedly looked in that color), and had a kind of ruffled skirt that looked more like a wedding cake than a proper dress. It was, in a word, horrific; one of the worst dresses Hermione had ever seen in her whole, entire life. But Susan looked proud of it, and so Hermione said, “Oh, it's _gorgeous_.”

 

The fitting didn't take long. They invited her to stay for wine, but Hermione laughed, gestured at herself, and simply said, “I think I should probably go back to my cave.”

 

Susan gave her a _long_ , tight hug before she left.

 

Not that it meant Ron was entirely forgiven. Given how expertly he'd been avoiding making eye contact, she knew that he knew that his comeuppance was imminent. She'd have to ply Ginny for ideas on how to make him pay for this.

 

After Flooing home, she washed off _both_ masks, and inspected her pores.

 

They still looked the same. “Figures,” she huffed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Being a bridesmaid was _busy_ work. She was busy trying to herd Victoire to the tent to get her hair finished, and the little blonde was kicking up a legendary fuss, from the fact that her head hurt (her hair had been pulled back and held in tightly with pins) to her pinched toes to her itchy dress. Even red-faced and screaming in rage, the five-year old looked like a beautiful little cherub.

 

In the back of her mind, a gnawing worry developed slowly: She wasn't sure Draco was coming, despite having accepted his invitation the week prior. That worry grew larger and larger as the ceremony drew closer without a single sign of him.

 

She did her best to ignore it, trying to keep her patience as she _gently_ ushered Victoire into the tent.

 

The girl grumbled and ran ahead, tired of being pushed, and Hermione heaved a sigh of relief as she straightened, putting her hands on her hips. She thought she could feel her own curls escaping from the up-do they'd been put in by the frustrated hair-dresser. She hoped that scary old crone wouldn't hex her when she needed it fixed _again_.

 

Then, she heard him, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

 

“Oh, sweet father of Merlin,” Draco gasped. When she turned to look at him, he was staring in open _horror_ at her dress. “Where did you _get_ that abortion?” he demanded, at full speaking volume.

 

“Shh!” she hissed, stepping towards him to adopt a secretive undertone. “I'm a bridesmaid, now. One of Susan's friends couldn't make it.”

 

He shook his head, slowly. “I don't think I can be seen with you, like this.” He took a step back from her, glancing around a bit to see if there was anyone lingering nearby with a camera. “What if someone takes a picture? I can't be in a picture with _that_.”

 

She put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at him. “Oh, so our love can't handle an ugly little dress, is that it?” she teased, laughing. The faint smile fell right off his face, and she winced a bit. “Too early for jokes? Sorry,” she murmured. She didn't imagine he'd somehow gotten over his mother's mental state in the past twenty-four hours.

 

He opened his mouth to say something, looking at her closely, but then changed his mind. He shook his head a bit. “No, jokes are... fine.”

 

Hermione squinted at him a bit. “Doesn't seem fine,” she observed. “You're still mad, then?”

 

“I am _unusually_ peeved, although I've set it aside for the evening,” he agreed, magnanimously. “But that wasn't why-- nevermind.” He smiled at her, wanly, and looked down at the dress again. “That's it. I can't dance with you. Not in that.”

 

Squawking indignantly, she swatted his chest, earning a soft laugh. Of course, he was dressed sharply, in his usual fussy suit that looked like it had come straight out of the early 1900s. “You will be nice about this dress, today. Susan picked it, and she loves it, and it's her wedding.”

 

He scowled a bit, rolling his eyes.

 

“So, go on.”

 

“What?” he asked, boredly, his eyes already scanning the rest of the lawn. The aisle was just a runner going down the grass, with chairs set up in rows on either side. A pair of trees served as the altar.

 

She smirked a bit. “Give my dress a compliment,” she challenged.

 

His eyes widened and shot back to her, and then traveled back down to the hideous layers of skirts as he blanched, trying not to let his nose wrinkle into the sneer he so desperately wanted to display. “I... can't,” he finished, grimacing.

 

“You have to. It's her _wedding_ ,” she repeated. “Do it.”

 

He looked pained, like someone was twisting a knife into his stomach. The grimace persisted as he looked down the dress again, taking in every hideous stitch. “It... really makes...” he tried, desperately. His eyes flicked back up to her. “Your face look amazing.”

 

She burst out laughing, and he joined her. “That...” She shook her head, still grinning. “I have no _words_ for how abominable a compliment that was.”

 

“It was the most truthful thing I could have said,” he defended.

 

Her laughter finally died down a bit, and she smiled at him. “I'm really glad you came,” she said, softly. “I was kind of worried that you wouldn't.”

 

“Why, because you sent my mother into the loony bin?” he asked, faux-scoffing. The teasing tone did little to hide the bitter lilt underneath. “Nonsense. It'll be like a nice _holiday_ , for her. They can give her one of those nice little jackets that forces her to hug herself. What are they called, again?”

 

“Straitjackets. And quit being dramatic.”

 

“Well, that _is_ what I do best,” he drawled.

 

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Is she _really_ at St. Mungo's?” she asked, frowning. She didn't think it was fair that she should feel a shred of guilt at the thought, but there it was, anyway.

 

“No,” he sighed. “She's just been somewhat subdued, since your talk.”

 

She licked her lips, feeling an apology spring to them. She didn't quite get it out – and honestly, she wasn't sure if she _should_ – before the screaming started.

 

They both startled when Victoire's furious voice _tore_ through the air like a banshee. Hermione groaned, casting the tent a baleful look. “Shite. Watching her's my job, pre-ceremony,” she muttered, by way of explanation. “Victoire. That little brat is _so lucky_ that she's so sodding cute, or she'd have been murdered a thousand times over, by now.” She shot Draco a narrow look. “Wonder who _that_ reminds me of.”

 

She turned to head off, and Draco called after her, “Did you just call me _cute_ without me twisting your arm about it?” She sent him a rather inappropriate gesture, and he grinned at her as she disappeared into the tent.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The ceremony, despite Susan's self-assurance otherwise, went absolutely perfectly. Victoire managed to behave herself long enough to walk down the aisle, or maybe it was just the natural performer in her that just loved being the center of everyone's attention. Whatever it was, Hermione was grateful for it.

 

Hannah was paired with Harry for the walk. Hermione ended up with _George_ , who made it his mission to make her laugh on the walk up. She wasn't sure how, but he managed to wedge no less than fourteen dirty jokes in the thirty seconds it took them to reach the altar as she tried to keep a plastic smile on her face. He pushed them, relentlessly, out of the corner of his mouth as he maintained his own smile.

 

“I will hex you into smithereens,” she promised him through the grit teeth of her fake smile as they separated at the head of the aisle.

 

He turned and winked, making a little kissy face at her.

 

She had to press her lips together to keep from exploding into giggles, her cheeks reddening a bit with the effort. _Damn_ him.

 

The ceremony was, naturally, just adorable. Hermione watched with an absent smile on her face as she watched her best friend marry a girl that she really thought he might already love – a girl that he'd probably spend the rest of his life with. The way he was looking at Susan in that moment, their hands joined, made Hermione decide to forgive him for the night before.

 

After all, love could make a person do crazy things.

 

When the ceremony was done, Ron's sappy smile turned into a full-fledged, exuberant grin, and he turned to the seated masses and pumped their joined hands in the air, like he'd just caught the snitch and couldn't believe his damn luck. As if on cue, everyone cheered.

 

The kissing part of the ceremony wasn't usually present in wizarding weddings, and Harry had to gently steer Ron back towards Susan, who was waiting patiently for it. At first, Ron seemed a little confused, until Susan launched herself into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him an exhilarated kiss. Hermione had to laugh, and began clapping along with everyone else.

 

When the kiss was over, both of them were red-faced and grinning like idiots. They went back to holding hands as they walked back down the aisle, ducking a bit as the attendees showered them in rice.

 

Hermione watched them disappear into the reception tent, and then her eyes panned the crowd. Her eyes caught on Draco, who was staring at her. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he pointedly flicked his eyes down to her ankles, and mouthed: “ _Ridiculous_.”

 

She laughed, rolling her eyes, and stepped forward to join arms with George as they followed the other couples towards the tent.

 

“Okay, did you hear the one about the duck with the erection? So this duck, right--”

 

“George, I will _dismember_ you,” she hissed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco appeared at her side right before the first dance. Hermione glanced at him. “I wonder what they'll dance to,” she murmured. “They've been _so_ tight-lipped about their first-dance song. You'd think they'd written it themselves and hadn't yet copyrighted it, or something.”

 

“Well, presumably it'll be a song,” he drawled, passing her a glass of champagne. “Am I to _also_ presume they won't be doing the standard Viennese Waltz?”

 

She huffed. “No! Good God, I should hope not. How boring.”

 

“There is nothing _boring_ about a perfectly executed waltz. Besides, it's traditional.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes a bit. “It's just about the _least_ romantic-- whatever. I get it, you're a pureblood ponce. Alright, moving on. In Muggle weddings, the first dance is a song the couple picks. It's supposed to, you know, be momentous. It's something that means a lot to the both of them. It's usually some sappy love song. The point is, it is meant to... I suppose, _encapsulate_ the relationship?”

 

Draco watched Ron and Susan go onto the dance floor, both of them shy and all but vibrating with boundless energy. Everyone cleared some space around them and they squared away, hands curling around each other as they waited for the music to start. “That's a tradition in all Muggle weddings?”

 

Hermione nodded, absently. The music started, and she sighed a bit. “Oh, that's a good one. I bet that's all Susan,” she murmured. “ _At Last_ by Etta James. Nicely done.”

 

He cocked his head, listening to the song. It seemed a little dramatic, but watching Ron and Susan stare soulfully into each other's eyes while they swayed to it _did_ make it seem a little more poignant. He glanced sidelong at his own fiancee. “What would be your first-dance song?”

 

She snorted. “Knowing your mother? Whatever went well with that waltz you mentioned.”

 

Draco watched her sway with the song a bit, her eyes locked on the couple in the middle of the floor, her gaze a bit distant. “But if you had to pick,” he said.

 

She looked at him, blinking, and then flushed. She tried to hide it by taking a sip of her champagne. “I don't know,” she lied, _badly_. He tucked his free hand into his pocket, stifling a smile. Hermione wasn't a bad liar, when she was prepared for it. However, when he caught her off-guard and she had to suddenly and quickly lie in the _moment_ , she looked so frazzled and guilty that she might as well have _LIAR_ appear emblazoned across her forehead. “Probably this one,” she joked, weakly.

 

“Seriously,” he pressed.

 

“I don't know,” she insisted, turning half away from him to hide her flush. The song finally ended, and something a bit more up-beat came on. She drained her champagne and set the empty glass down. “Want to dance?”

 

He eyed her, curiosity burning in him, but finally drained his glass. “It must be a pretty embarrassing song,” he decided, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the dance floor.

 

Her face was bright red, but she didn't give in to his prompting. “What song?” she said, innocently.

 

“I'll find out sooner or later,” he promised, turning to face her and pulling her a little close. The song was still somewhat slow, and everyone else was dancing close to each other. “Don't you think it'd just be _easier_ to tell me? The longer it takes for me to find out, the more likely I am to make a huge deal about it and embarrass you.”

 

Stubbornly, she said, “Has it occurred to you that I haven't _thought_ about it?”

 

“No. You think about everything. Far too much, actually.”

 

“Not _everything_. Obviously.”

 

Draco just smiled, the expression on his face fond as he regarded her. Oh, yes, he would find out. And if it was atrocious, he was going to have _so much fun_ rubbing her silly little nose in it. He kind of hoped it was as heavy-handed and ridiculous as the song Ron and Susan picked.

 

“Is that kiss a Muggle tradition, as well?” he wondered. “I saw that Potter had to shove him back towards her.”

 

She giggled at the memory. “Yes, it is,” she said, warming up as her stiff embarrassment faded. “At least, here and most of the rest of Europe. And America, probably. Usually the priest – that's who officiates, most of the time, unless they're a different religion, or something – will pronounce them man and wife, and tell the groom that he 'may now kiss the bride.' Then, they kiss.”

 

“What's the point?”

 

She shrugged a bit. “It seals the ceremony, according to the old Roman tradition. They used to believe that part of your souls would go into each other, and so you would then commit to spending your entire life together.”

 

Draco nodded, falling silent. His eyes drifted down somewhat naturally, and he sighed in disgust, raising his eyes back to her face. “I'd nearly forgotten about that gaudy Christmas wrapping you'd been decked out in,” he complained. “Although how forgetting it was even possible, I'll _never_ know.”

 

“Don't be a _prat_ ,” she demanded, face heating again. “Do you think _I'm_ happy about it?”

 

He smirked. “No. That's why I like reminding you,” he said, smugly.

 

“I don't know what has possessed me to keep putting up with you,” she intoned, narrowing her eyes a bit up at him. “You have no redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

 

“Perhaps you have finally fallen victim to my charm.” Her snort was _somewhat less_ than complimentary. He pressed on, refusing to even acknowledge it. “My Slytherin-honed charm, that was able to fell even the most frigid and onerous of the bushy-haired Gryffindor swots...”

 

“I'm not sure I _care_ for that description.”

 

“Well, it's my story. If you would like to write your _own_ story, _please_ feel free,” he informed her, sagely. “Also, don't interrupt.”

 

“Your story is rubbish.”

 

“ _Duly_ noted.”

 

Despite his constant complaints about her dress, the only times he _didn't_ dance with her that night was when he danced with Ginny or Susan – or she danced with Harry or Ron. True to his word, he didn't bring up his mother again that night, allowing peace to reign for the duration of the wedding. She presumed that he was just saving up all his ire to give her a hellacious what-for later.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Although when that what-for was coming, she'd no idea. After the wedding, they'd both gone back to their separate homes. The next morning at coffee, he'd said nothing about it, nor did he on Tuesday or Wednesday.

 

It was _kind_ of driving her insane.

 

On Thursday, she made it through half of their hour together before she broke. “Oh, damn it, Draco, will you just get it _over_ with?” she'd exploded, after he'd commented that _the coffee was rather weak, that day_. Her outburst just made him blink and stare at her, his eyebrows slowly rising. “Give me hell about your mother. I know you want to,” she accused.

 

The corners of his lips quirked, and he settled an elbow on the table so he could cup his chin with his hand. “Have you been thinking about that all week?” he asked, eyes half-lidded as he smirked.

 

She scowled at him.

 

“Good,” he said, satisfied, and Hermione's glare intensified as she realized that's what he'd been playing at all along. “Also, I've noticed that you haven't tried to reconcile with her.”

 

Hermione spluttered a bit. “ _When_ would I have done that? During the wedding, or during the work-week?”

 

Draco gave her a withering look. “Hermione,” he said, and his tone was quiet but firm – and almost disappointed. She suddenly realized she'd just gotten another glimpse of what he'd be like, as a father.

 

She groaned, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. She hadn't planned on breaking the ice to make nice with the Malfoy Matriarch that early (or ever), but she supposed that at some point, she'd _have_ to. Avoiding it wouldn't be worth getting Draco all in a snit. Pick your battles, and all that. “Fine,” she muttered. “I'll owl her. We need to figure out another location for the wedding, anyway.”

 

“Why?” he asked, frowning.

 

She hesitated. “That night I went home, I... I told my Dad about it. All of it,” she said, softly. “Which I'd never done, before. He knew you guys were on the other side, you and your parents. He didn't know anything else.”

 

He sobered, swallowing a bit. “That's going to make family dinners a bit tense.”

 

Hermione nodded. “He said he refuses to give me away at the same place I'd been tortured. He wants me to stop all of it, actually – give up my wand, rather than marry into your family.” His spine stiffened. “I won't, obviously. I told him about the ring, and... well, he's not _happy_ , but at least a little appeased. He doesn't hate _you_ , by the way,” she hastened to add. “Since you were a teenager at the time.”

 

“He just hates my _parents_ ,” Draco said, a bit sarcastic. “Is that supposed to be better?”

 

“And your parents spent their _entire lives_ hating me,” she snipped, pointedly. That shut him up, and she sent him a faint glare before continuing. “Without reason, I might add. Just because I was born. At least _my_ father has the good sense to hate your parents for _torturing_ his only _child_ half to death.”

 

“I get it,” he ground out, his eyes flashing.

 

Hermione eyed him, wondering if he did, but nodded and let it go. “Anyway, we need to find some neutral ground for the ceremony. If you've any ideas, speak up.”

 

He considered his coffee for a long moment. “I don't know. Hogwarts,” he suggested, with a bit of a shrug. “School will be out for the hols, you always liked it there for _some_ reason, and the grounds aren't too ugly.”

 

Hermione fell silent, thinking. She wouldn't lie and say it hadn't occurred to her. The school grounds were half of her childhood home – a place where she'd laughed with her friends and felt truly, innocently happy. It seemed like a good enough place to try and start a new, terrifying adventure. “If your parents agreed, I could probably ask Headmistress McGonagall. _And_ I'll ask Narcissa,” she added, to placate him.

 

Draco was staring at her, and the intensity of it made her face heat a bit.

 

“ _What_.”

 

He blinked, and then smiled, the intensity disappearing. “Sorry. My thoughts were a million miles away. Yes, that's fine.” She shot him a suspicious look, but let it drop.

 

“Is she feeling any better?” Hermione wondered, softly. “She's not still crying, is she?”

 

He shook his head. “No. She's distracting herself, planning some fundraiser for some-- I don't know, one of her little projects. I wasn't really paying attention. Something about the war – she was mumbling a lot. I didn't catch most of it.”

 

“Huh,” Hermione said. She was surprised Narcissa was willing to focus her time on any sort of war effort, although she supposed that was as good an indication that the woman was healing as any. “I guess it's good that she's got something to fill her time with. Maybe I'll help her. Harry and I did a lot of post-war efforts right after, but we have a lot of ideas that we never got to use. So now,” she added, raising her eyebrows. “We just need a hobby for _you_.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Certainly! Are you going to just sit in your Manor being disgustingly rich, all your life?” she scoffed. “Your father increases your wealth with whatever dirty back-dealings he does, your mother lends her social support to various things. What are _you_ going to do?”

 

He hesitated. “I don't know. Nothing. I don't have anything that really interests me,” he admitted, with a shrug.

 

“What about potions? Narcissa showed me the playroom off your suite,” she added, when his eyes widened a bit. “You had a whole set-up in there. What were you making?”

 

He looked briefly embarrassed. “Nothing, just-- nothing. I just goof about.”

 

“On what?” she pressed, curious.

 

“Whatever's in my head for the day.” He had his shoulders all bunched up, and was glaring into his coffee. “There's no grand project I'm working on, I just try and mix up a few things and see if anything comes of it.”

 

“You're experimenting with _new_ potions? Inventing them?”

 

He hesitated. “Not really, it's sort of-- I don't know, an alchemical thing,” he muttered. The look of embarrassment on his expression deepened at her speculative look. He scowled. “I was reading a book on that stuff and I wanted to test a few of the theories out. It's not that important.”

 

“How long have you been doing that?” she asked, bewildered.

 

Draco didn't respond. When she waved a hand in his face, impatiently, he mumbled, “Three or four years.”

 

She started to laugh. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Draco, but I think that classes it as a proper hobby. I thought you didn't _have_ any hobbies.”

 

He sighed, looking exasperated. “I _don't_ have a hobby. It's just something I do when I'm bored.”

 

“That's-- That is _literally_ what a hobby is. Do you not hear yourself, when you speak?” she demanded. When he just rolled his eyes, she blazed on: “Did you ever go to that Centre for Alchemical Studies, in Egypt?”

 

“No. That's a school,” he murmured. “I'm not going back to school.”

 

“Why? School's great.”

 

“Oh, Merlin, I'm getting married to _such a swot_ ,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. Things would have been _so much easier_ with Astoria Greengrass. _She_ would have never tried to improve his personality or try and make him do productive things with his life. “I imagine this is a divine punishment, of sorts. Maybe I really did die in the war, and this is what _hell_ is like.”

 

“I'm going to get you some brochures,” she promised, brightly, ignoring his unflattering little rant.

 

“Do _not_ get me brochures.”

 

“Just a couple.” His glare intensified. “Just a _couple_!”

 


	38. Reaching Out

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Reaching Out**

 

…

 

She got the invitation to Neville and Hannah's wedding, scheduled for mid-October, the next day. _Neville_ , that lucky sod. He probably would have popped the question within the next year, or so, anyway.

 

Hermione was glad she hadn't had to deal with the invitations. From what she'd heard, Narcissa had sent most of _theirs_ out on Draco's birthday, _months_ prior. She'd hadn't waited long after getting the green light from Hermione to start laying down concrete plans. Now that she was thinking about it, she realized more and more that Narcissa had probably done that just to make sure Hermione wouldn't go back on her decision.

 

 _Slytherins_. She'd had more than enough Slytherin nonsense in her life up until now. She couldn't _believe_ she'd willingly signed up for another decade of this.

 

Despite her promise to Draco, she didn't actually send Narcissa an owl until Friday, inquiring as to the blonde woman's plans for Saturday. She hoped Narcissa _did_ have plans, and she could go another blissful week of avoiding her. Unfortunately, the response indicated that Narcissa was definitely free, and Hermione had been penciled in at 2:00 in the afternoon.

 

She bit back a groan when she read it.

 

“I promised him,” she muttered to herself. The first interaction would be the worst. She had to get it over with.

 

Gathering up her desk, she headed home, declining an invitation from Harry to come over for dinner. She was going to need a good, long night alone to _psychologically fortify_ for this tea.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She spent Saturday morning cleaning her flat. It didn't particularly need it, but _she_ did. She was going to go crazy, waiting for 2:00 to roll around. So she'd spent the morning dusting under all the furniture and the tops of the bookshelves. She'd re-arranged the books by color, and then re-arranged them _back_ by subject and publication date. Then she re-arranged her closet by color. She almost put it back, but then stopped, deciding to keep it that way.

 

She considered popping by Harry and Ginny's, but realized they were out of town for a game. She considered the same for Ron or Susan, and recalled that they were touring Ireland until the following Monday.

  
It was just her, and her thoughts, and her burgeoning dread over the coming teatime.

 

At 1:45, she muttered, “Close _enough_ ,” and Flooed over.

 

She came out in the library fireplace, and blinked, freezing on the spot at the unprecedented surroundings. She was so used to coming in through the ballroom that for a second she was afraid she'd gone straight into the wrong house. But no, she recognized those cramped, towering shelves.

 

Hermione sighed. For Narcissa, this was almost _pathetic_. This move utterly lacked in any subtlety.

 

If she hadn't already resolved to Draco that she'd try and work things through with the woman, making her walk through the library certainly wouldn't have done it. Hermione started for the door, muttering, “This is _sad_.”

 

“Beg your pardon?”

 

The voice was _unfamiliar_ , which was the _only_ reason she jumped about fifty feet up and squealed in terror. Or so she was going to keep telling herself. Whirling around, Hermione gaped as a tall, skinny man in glasses unfolded himself from the plush leather chair in the far corner of the library. He held a book in his hands as he approached, and she realized she thought he looked familiar.

 

From where, though?

 

“Good afternoon, Granger,” he said, once he got a little closer. When he saw the way she was staring at him, obviously trying to place him, his lips flickered a bit in not-quite-a-smile. “Clearly I should have put more effort into bullying you. It's only been eight years, you know.”

 

Her eyes widened a bit. “ _Nott_?”

 

“That's better,” he commended, moving past her to replace what he'd been reading on the shelf. “If I'd been more like my friends, I might have been gravely offended. As it happens, being forgettable has worked out well enough, for me.”

 

Still stunned at his sudden appearance, she pivoted on her heel to stare at him. She put her hands to her waist, squinting a bit. “Didn't I hear that you expatriated to Jamaica, or something?”

 

He snorted. “Close; Turkey,” he said, in a dry tone, and she was about to correct him before she realized that for Theodore Nott, that seemed to count as a joke. “And I didn't expatriate. I'm studying there.”

 

“For eight years?”

 

“It's advanced.”

 

Her eyes narrowed a bit, not quite liking the faint condescension she thought she detected beneath his perpetually mild tone. “I'm sure I could understand.”

 

“Not without a lot of explaining. Trust me.”

 

“Yeah, right,” she huffed. She'd sooner trust a basilisk in a room of mirrors. “Welcome back, I suppose. Are you just visiting Draco?”

 

Theo shot her a speculative glance when she used Draco's first name, but didn't comment. “Back for the wedding, actually,” he corrected, returning to stand in front of her. “Thankfully, my having absconded from the country for more than five consecutive years has afforded me some time. They won't try and pair me until my schooling is complete.”

 

“So I assume you'll be spending the next ten years collecting as many phDs as you can, then?” If he returned after the law was finished with, he'd be beholden to nothing. Lucky him.

 

“Right in one,” he murmured, the flicker-half-smile returning.

 

She snorted a bit. “I hate to break this to you, but the wedding isn't for another three weeks.”

 

“There are certain duties a man in my position must attend to, I'm afraid. I'll be conducting my studies remotely until it's all over.”

 

“Your position?”

 

“I believe you Muggles term it 'best man'? We call it 'witnessing.'”

 

Shocked into silence, Hermione squinted incredulously at him. _Theo Nott_ was Draco's best man? Well, she supposed he wasn't on the best of terms with Blaise, but honestly, she hadn't thought Theo and Draco were even that good of friends. “I...” She cocked her head, thinking. “I didn't know you two were that close.”

 

His eyebrows rose just a _smidgen_. His expressions were so understated, he made _Lucius Malfoy_ 's face look like a _circus_. “I'm afraid a book hasn't been written on it, yet, so that's to be expected,” he said.

 

She rolled her eyes, sighing loudly. “Oh, good, one of Professor Snape's old jokes,” she snipped. “Glad to see they're coming back in style. Next time, though, maybe you could _come up_ with something of your own.”

 

This time, she could see his smile – it didn't flash at the corners for a second, but remained, widening just a little in appreciation. He inclined his head towards her, wordlessly awarding her a 'point,' and extended his arm. “I was left sentry to escort you to tea,” he explained, when she stared at it. “Draco's doing a project for Mr. Malfoy, but he'll join us shortly.”

 

“Oh.” She sighed, but took his arm. “All these little rules of etiquette are really annoying.”

 

“I will _gladly_ hear your complaints on the matter when you've spent more than five _months_ enduring them,” he said, his tone betraying his own exhaustion with them. She wondered what kind of people he hung around with, in Turkey; if he got to act in a way that was more natural to him. “Until then, I'd advise you to use your lack of high birth as an excuse to ignore them from time to time.”

 

They left the library as Hermione groaned at the thought. “Lucius would have a _field day_. I won't give him the satisfaction.”

 

She could almost _see_ him making a mental note of the fact that she was on a first-name basis with Draco's father, too. “He's eager to point out your faults?” he inquired, politely.

 

She almost just said yes and let that be that, but stopped, shrugging. “Well, I guess I can't say I don't have fun pointing out his,” she admitted. “Although to be _clear_ , that's an _entirely_ retaliatory reaction. I don't instigate _anything_.”

 

“Tell that to his waffles,” Draco snorted, from behind them. He stepped into the hallway, the study door closing behind him automatically. Looking at Nott, he explained, “I finished up early.”

 

“That was _not my fault_ ,” Hermione scoffed, pulling her arm free to put it on her hip. “Did you _see_ him eating that thing? It had _powdered sugar_ on it. I can _not_ be held responsible for the fact that it was _hilarious_.” Draco crossed his arms, and she looked to Theo, plaintive. “I _can't_. That's not fair. Any _sane_ person would have started laughing.”

 

“ _I've_ never laughed at it,” Draco pointed out. When Hermione let the silence ring in, pointedly, he scowled. “Ha ha ha,” he muttered. “Also, that's not the first time you laughed at him. I seem to recall you nearly ruptured your spleen when he danced with you.”

 

“ _Same principle_. You can't see a former _Death Eater_ skip around like a merry little _bunny_ and _not laugh_ ,” she defended, shrilly.

 

Draco stepped up to her and, as she tried to continue, folded his hand over her mouth. She ranted into his palm for a second as he smiled. “You're getting high-pitched, again. You're going to perforate Theo's ear drums. Also, my father's in that room, undoubtedly hearing everything.”

 

He removed his hand in time to hear her say, “-- If you want _high-pitched_ , I can arrange that, here in a second.”

 

Catching her hidden threat, he quickly side-stepped her before she could put her knee anywhere sensitive. “You need it intact to make babies,” he reminded her.

 

“Not if she uses artificial insemination,” Theo pointed out, earning a dirty glare from his friend.

 

Hermione beamed at Theo, happily surprised. “ _Thank_ you. See? I told you it wasn't unreasonable.”

 

“Those Muggles are ruining you,” Draco informed Theo, tersely. Then he turned his attention back to Hermione. “And I never want to hear that phrase ever again, for the rest of my life. I'm banning it. It is _verboten_.” He made a slashing gesture with his hand.

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that. Okay, let's go, can we? The last time I was late, your mother sent me lady's pocketwatch, and if she tries that again, I _might_ break your nose with it.”

 

“You wouldn't do a thing to damage this perfect face,” he said, confidently, placing her hand on the crook of his arm.

 

“ _Try_ me.”

 

Theo walked on the other side of her, his hands folded behind his back. After a moment, she glanced at him. “You're staying among Muggles?” she finally ventured. Draco's off-hand comment hadn't escaped her attention.

 

He nodded. “I'm studying molecular biology at Bilkent University.”

 

She gasped a bit. “ _Really_? What-- I'm sorry for all the questions,” she murmured. “But I have to know. What made you decide to go into that? And at a Muggle university, no less. I'm a little surprised.”

 

“You shouldn't be. You didn't know me very well, in school,” he reminded her. “I had always found scientific endeavors to be fascinating, although I was not precisely encouraged to pursue that interest during my formative years.” Well, _that_ was certainly a nice way of putting it. Mr. Nott might well have been on the cover of the Death Eater's personal _Mein Kampf_ if Lucius Malfoy hadn't weaseled his way into that distinction, first.

 

And Mr. Nott had a far wider reputation for habitual cruelty.

 

“Well, I'm glad you're pursuing it now, then,” she murmured, not sure how to say, _Hey, I'm sorry your odious father died_. Mostly because she was _not_ sorry about that. Not at all.

 

“I am, also.”

 

“So what kind of stuff are you studying, right now?” she asked, with a keen interest. They talked about it until they reached the patio where Narcissa had set the tea. She saw Lucius was joining them, as well, and said a polite hello to each of them. Narcissa kissed her cheeks, and Hermione returned the gesture, if a little stiffly.

 

It wasn't long before she was turning back to Theo again, excitedly bringing up his school. They remained engrossed in conversation for a full half-hour, or maybe even longer. She wasn't really paying attention to the time.

 

“Hermione,” came an exasperated voice from beside her.

 

She turned to Draco, who was glaring at her. “What?”

 

“Husband,” he reminded her, pointing at himself. Then he pointed at Theo. “Best man. While I agree that your attention should be disproportionate, it's being disproportionate at the _wrong person_.”

 

“Oh,” she scoffed, glaring at him. “Will you grow up?”

 

“I'm about to make you trade seats with my father,” he threatened. He'd kept his voice low as he spoke, but although his parents were talking behind him, it was clear they were listening to every single word. “Or send Theo back to Turkey.”

 

“Who will be your best man?” Theo wondered.

 

“I'll glue your picture to a _stick_ and prop it up beside me,” Draco grit out, his glare panning to his friend.

 

She rolled her eyes. “All _right_. Even though you command my undivided attention _every weekday_ for an _hour_ , I will commence staring at you in utter adoration for the remainder of the day.” The sarcasm in her tone was nearly lethal, but Draco just nodded.

 

“Good.”

 

She waited, and when he didn't say anything else, she snapped, “So what did you _want_?” Because surely he'd interrupted her conversation for a reason.

 

“Your undivided attention,” he said, carelessly, biting into a biscuit.

 

She grit her teeth, and lifted her hands a bit to make a strangling motion at him, half-hiding it beneath the table so only Draco and Theo could see. “I'm going to kill you, one day.”

 

“I'll take you with me,” was his promise and retort.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After tea, Lucius ordered Draco and Theo into his study to discuss 'matters,' a vague term that didn't fool Hermione for one second. Despite knowing that it was just a ploy to leave her alone with Narcissa, though, she didn't call him out on it. As the boys filed out, she stood with her imminent mother-in-law, folding her hands behind her back a little awkwardly.

 

Narcissa broke the silence, first. “Would you like to take a turn around the rose garden?” Hermione nodded, as they'd both known she would, and the blonde woman turned to meander into the gardens.

 

Hermione fell into step beside her, silent.

 

They'd been walking for nearly five minutes before she finally cleared her throat a bit, determined to slog through this interaction if it killed her. She almost asked Narcissa how she'd been, but she got the sense that the woman wouldn't appreciate being reminded of her breakdown. “Draco said you were starting a fundraiser for the war,” she said, slowly. “But he didn't know much about it. Is it a relief effort?”

 

Narcissa laughed, softly. “It's a little late for that, don't you think? Actually, it is not for the Wizarding War at all.”

 

Hermione hesitated, not sure how to take that. “No?”

 

“I have a friend living in Cairo that has mentioned in her letters that there is an altercation in Sudan,” Narcissa said, slowly. “I believe it was Sudan.”

 

She nodded, dumbly. “Darfur,” she murmured.

 

“Yes, that's it,” she said, softly. “I thought it would be worthwhile to create an organization that extends assistance to civilians caught in a war-time environment.” The way she said it was so delicate, Hermione had to stop and look at her. It was almost like Narcissa was desperately trying not to be offensive, but wasn't sure how to avoid doing so. “I would like to host a fundraising event to begin that organization and find collaborators.”

 

Hermione blinked, a little stunned, and said, “And by civilians, you mean--?” The wizarding world didn't really differentiate between civilians and non-civilians; there was no formal military.

 

“Muggles.”

 

She stared at the statuesque blonde, utterly robbed of speech. “Muggles,” she repeated, dumbly.

 

Narcissa turned to start walking again, slowly. “I suppose that I have never allowed it to occur to me that there was more violence and cruelty beyond the small scope of my home.” Her voice was soft, almost hard to hear, but Hermione could detect a thin thread of strain. “And I have come to the conclusion that the most prudent method of dealing with such issues is to seek them out and moderate them.”

 

Hermione shook her head a bit. “But the Ministry doesn't allow for us to intervene on Muggle matters,” she reminded her, quietly. “Otherwise there'd be quite a lot of us already doing so.”

 

“The problem, Hermione, is that you did not have a proper Slytherin to ensure the Ministry's cooperation,” Narcissa said, her voice smoothing out. “It's rather easy to ignore a pack of righteous Gryffindors – no offense meant – because while you are certainly impassioned, you are not particularly worrisome because of your constant deferment to _legal_ morality.”

 

She stopped again, facing her. “And you want to use your influence at the Ministry to change that,” she said, almost suspiciously. There was always some ulterior motive, and now she wanted to figure out what it is. “Your husband's on board with that?”

 

“Of course. He is rather instrumental in regards to influencing the Ministry. It would not be a very effective effort without him.”

 

“Why?” Hermione finally asked, bluntly.

 

Narcissa eyed her, sidelong. “Does the 'why' matter, Hermione?” she asked. “If good is done, does the intent behind it matter?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?” the woman returned.

 

“Because if the intent is evil, then the perpetrator can convince themselves they're doing good rather easily and end up doing something absolutely awful, like _killing all Muggle-borns_ ,” Hermione reminded her, flatly. She was relieved to note that Narcissa didn't flinch, this time; in fact, the woman met her gaze rather squarely. “So, _why_?”

 

The woman smiled, a bit bitterly. “You make rather pointed observations when you are upset,” she murmured. “Lucius has come to respect you for such qualities. It is rather disorienting for him, to find himself liking you.”

 

Hermione laughed automatically, because the thought of Lucius _liking_ her was patently absurd.

 

“I am not joking, or lying,” Narcissa said, patiently, and watched with gratification as the amusement faded from Hermione's expression. “He likes to pretend that he is only allowing this union because I wanted it so dearly, but he has come to enjoy your presence within our lives as much as I do.” Her voice was quiet, and serious. Hermione didn't know how to really take it. “I think there was always a small part of him that desired a daughter. As that desire was never fulfilled, Draco's wife would be a fitting stand-in, don't you think?”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” the curly-haired witch muttered.

 

“So you can understand why I felt it justified to tamper with your Matchmakers results,” she said, a sense of urgency swelling in her tone. “You are good for us. And we are good for you.”

 

Hermione snorted.

 

“We are. With us, you can actually achieve the change you desire to see,” Narcissa pointed out. “We know how to operate within the Ministry to achieve our aims, and furthermore we know how to do so without making our intentions obvious to all. That is a skill set you _dearly_ require.” Hermione had sobered, watching her, and Narcissa continued: “And to answer your question, Hermione, I am seeking to atone.”

 

She went a little still. “Atone for the war?” she asked, softly.

 

Narcissa inclined her head a bit. “Yes. I admit the impulse is rather selfish; I am not very accustomed to feeling uncertain about my past actions, especially in regards to whether or not they were right. My hope is that I can counterbalance any wrong I have done by doing right in the future.”

 

Hermione stared at her for a long moment, assessing her expression and her body language. If Narcissa _was_ lying, then she was damnably good at it. But, for some reason, Hermione got the impression of sincerity. “If what you're saying is true,” she said, slowly, because she wasn't quite willing to blindly believe the woman _just_ yet. “Then I know several people, myself included, who would be interested in collaborating with your efforts. They're all passionate, lawful Gryffindors, mind you,” she said, in a dry tone. “But I think you'll find that you Slytherins could use a little passion. When things go impossible, we're the last ones to give up, you know.”

 

Narcissa chuckled. “I do know,” she admitted. “And I would appreciate the opportunity to collaborate with them. And with you.”

 

“I'll tell Harry to get in touch,” she said. “We'll set something up.”

 

She inclined her head. “Draco mentioned that you would like to have the ceremony at Hogwarts,” she said, changing topics so swiftly that it left Hermione's head spinning, a bit. “I think that is an excellent idea. Who will be your chief witness to the bonding?”

 

“Harry.”

 

Narcissa stopped short, blinking. “But he is a man.”

 

“And my best friend,” Hermione said. “Ginny will be my maid of honor. There's nothing in the books that says they have to be the same person. And I'll have two more bridesmaids, Susan and Luna.”

 

“That will leave the wedding uneven,” Narcissa murmured. “Draco has Mr. Nott as his best man and witness, and only Blaise besides.”

 

“Is that a problem?”

 

“Uneven weddings are bad luck,” she said, and then she added, “Please endeavor not to roll your eyes. Draco will have to find a third and fourth groomsman.”

 

“Doesn't he have two more friends?” Hermione huffed. “What about Pansy?”

 

“Pansy is not a _groomsman_.”

 

Hermione leveled a narrow look at the woman, drawing herself up a bit. Narcissa was taller than her, but Hermione knew she could look rather impressive when she needed to. “I don't know if you _think_ you can convince me to drop Harry from my party, but I won't. Harry is my witness and I want Ginny, Susan, _and_ Luna as my bridesmaids. I'm not keen on dropping anyone. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be leaving Ron out of things, either,” Hermione mentioned, rather enjoying the way Narcissa's face blanched.

 

“It's unseemly for a woman to have men in her wedding party,” she said, stiffly.

 

“Harry is the _only_ non-negotiable presence in my party,” Hermione said, tersely. “You know what? Drop Ginny, Susan, and Luna, if you want. They won't mind. But Harry stays, even if I have to put him in a _dress_ to keep him there.”

 

Narcissa inhaled, carefully, clearly trying to fortify her inner reserves of calm. “I will have to discuss the matter with Draco.”

 

“Alright,” she agreed, flatly. She could see the woman's mind working, though, trying to figure out a way to get Harry evicted from her wedding party. She didn't care _what_ clever thing the woman came up with. She wasn't getting married without Harry up there with her.

 

“Your attachment to him is rather strong,” Narcissa noted. “I don't suppose what I read in the _Prophet_ about you two is correct?”

 

Hermione bristled _fantastically_. “Rita Skeeter is a loathsome little _liar_. If you're willing to pick up your information from a person like her, you're obviously not as cunning as you like to think you are,” she snapped. “Harry is my best friend, and he's like a _brother_ to me.”

 

She raised a hand, palm towards Hermione. “Please calm down,” Narcissa said, softly. “I was simply asking. I was not trying to accuse you, or him, of anything.”

 

She blinked, taking a quick, shuddering breath. She balled her hands into tight fists and then released them with a sigh. “Sorry, I just-- I just really hate that question.”

 

“I can see that.”

 

“It's just annoying, you know? The idea that I can't be friends with a perfectly wonderful person if he happens to have opposing genitalia,” she muttered, crossing her arms defensively. “Why does everyone assume that a man and a women can't ever have a true, platonic friendship?”

 

Narcissa tilted her head a bit, thinking. “I don't think that,” she said. “For the record. I have had a deep friendship with a man.”

 

“And did Lucius lose his mind over it?” Hermione wondered, in a wry tone.

 

“No. It was well known to him that the man's affections lay very firmly elsewhere,” Narcissa disagreed. “Others assumed, of course. Mostly they assumed that he was in unrequited love with me, because I was very beautiful and he was not. It was assumed I loved Lucius, because he was also beautiful. When you are attractive, people take a rather shallow view of you, I've found.”

 

Hermione fell silent as she watched Narcissa, speculative, sobering up a bit. “Why _do_ you love him? Lucius.”

 

She smiled, and the smile was small, and private, and so sincere that it looked obscene on her usually collected face. Hermione felt her arms fall away from their crossed position over her chest as she watched the woman. “So many reasons. It's hard to pinpoint any one,” she admitted, quietly. “I admired his passion, and his intelligence. He was talented. He was funny, and playful when the mood struck him right. I laughed more, when I was with him. He was caring, and sensitive, and – believe it or not – he was always very kind and devoted to me.”

 

No, Hermione believed that. It was getting him to be kind to _everyone else_ that was the issue, there. Lucius didn't seem to have _any_ problems taking on the world and all of reality in order to keep Narcissa happy.

 

“And that other man? Why not him?”

 

Narcissa shrugged. “We just didn't,” she said, plainly, and Hermione smiled a bit. Because it really was that easy, wasn't it?

 

Because they just _didn't_.

 

She let her smile fade, and then she asked, softly, “Do you miss him?”

 

The woman swallowed, hard, and managed to summon a shaky smile. “Every day.”

 

“You know,” Hermione said, a little abruptly. She hesitated, but barreled on. “You know, one of Harry's kids is named after him. The youngest.” Or maybe Narcissa _did_ know. “Albus Severus.”

 

Judging by the look on Narcissa's face, she hadn't. If the boy was ever mentioned in the papers, it was usually just as 'Harry Potter's son, Albus.' For a moment, the woman looked like she didn't know what to say, and just stared at Hermione, her mouth parted. “That's... I'm glad,” she whispered. Hermione realized that it wasn't because of Albus' name that Narcissa looked so thunderstruck – it was because Hermione had guessed who Narcissa had been referring to. Maybe it hadn't been as obvious as she'd assumed. Or maybe she'd just had a head start, already knowing that Narcissa had managed to get Severus to take an Unbreakable Vow to protect his godson. “Remembering him on my own has been very lonely.”

 

“You should come by Grimmauld Place,” she suggested. Realizing Narcissa had grown up there, she said, “It's, ah, been rather renovated, so hopefully seeing it isn't too shocking. But I bet Harry would be glad to introduce you.”

 

She nodded a bit, a small smile touching her lips. “Thank you. I would like that.”

 


	39. Dancing, the Old-Fashioned Way

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Dancing, the Old-Fashioned Way**

 

…

 

“So the plan is, we're going to eliminate the wedding parties,” Draco murmured, looking at the sheet he'd been writing on. He sat with her at her kitchen table, parchments spread before him. Now that the wedding was drawing nearer, he seemed to have taken a more active interest in the proceedings, even going so far as to have an _opinion_ on the décor. “We'll just have our witnesses. Mum's not happy, but she refuses to have the wedding uneven.”

 

“Which is absolutely mad,” Hermione complained, sighing. “That's a _silly_ superstition. It doesn't even make any sense. What's the ramifications, exactly? An uneven wedding makes for an uneven... life?”

 

He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I'd much rather avoid an argument about whether or not superstitions are valid, so you _will refrain_ from bringing that up in front of her,” he said, firmly. When she made a scoffing noise, he lifted his head to narrow a look at her. He seemed to take her eye-roll as agreement, because he continued on: “Your friends won't care about getting dropped from the ceremony?” The faint look of anxiety crossed his expression so quickly that she _almost_ didn't catch it at all.

 

But she did, and a grin slowly formed on her face, wicked and knowing. “What's wrong, Draco? You worried about getting another punch?”

 

“No.”

 

“You're _scared_ of Ginny!” she accused, laughing in utter delight.

 

He brought his head back up to glare at her. “I am _not_ scared of the Weaselette,” he huffed, primly. “I was simply trying to be _considerate_ of you and your friends' delicate emotional sensibilities. After all, you _are_ a bunch of wom--”

 

“I think you know rather better than to try and finish that thought.”

 

Draco stopped short, and then changed the word, lamely: “Winners. And you know how... _winners_ are.”

 

She snorted indelicately. “You're a scaredy-cat. And no, they won't care.” She saw the faint lines of tension leave his shoulders, and shook her head. “I don't know _how_ she does it. I wish _I_ commanded that sort of terror,” she said, ruefully. “Imagine all the work I could get done.”

 

“People _are_ scared of you. Just for different reasons,” he said, absently, returning to writing on his little list. “Like, for instance, I live in constant terror that you'll start _boring_ me at any second by talking about social issues.”

 

Hermione made an indignant noise. “'Social issues' doesn't even _begin_ to encompass the--”

 

He gasped in fake fear, reeling back from her and drawing his hands up to shield his face. “It's happening! Someone help! Call an Auror! I'm being attacked with _facts_!” She began smacking at him, and he began to _more sincerely_ protect his face. “Ack-- Hermione! Okay, someone help _for real_ this time! Auror Department! _Harry bloody Potter_!” he yelled into her otherwise-empty flat.

 

She stopped, her eyes narrowed in warning.

 

Draco lowered his arms carefully, squinting at her with his shoulder still hedged up against his face. “Harry was right. You _do_ have hands like hammers.”

 

“Shut up,” she said, flatly. “What else do we have to do in the next couple of weeks?”

 

He glanced through the list. “Dancing lessons for our waltz--” He ignored her pained sigh, as he'd been doing so persistently the past week and a half. She'd started whining about the dance in earnest as soon as she'd heard about it. “Figure out the musical situation... My mother is going to demand a live orchestra, even if we only use it between your Muggle songs. She already has one contracted. Ginny said we have to include a 'dee-jay,' which I will leave to you, as I have absolutely no interest in learning what _that_ is.”

 

“Is this the menu?” Hermione asked, pulling out another parchment. “This looks remarkably similar to the food I've seen served at your mother's parties.”

 

“Are you _really_ surprised that my mother has a favorite caterer?”

 

“Good point. What's that?” she asked, pointing at an item on the list that simply said 'ceremony?' It had 'kiss' written next to it, then a dozen more question marks. “Kiss?”

 

Draco nodded. “I wasn't sure if you wanted to include Muggle components to the ceremony, such as the kiss. I'm not sure what else is to be expected.” He could only imagine that it was something that he would consider to be stupid, like smacking each other on the arse or bobbing for apples. No one in the wizarding world had ever taken the time to document _Muggle_ wedding traditions. He could only assume that meant they were ridiculous.

 

“I suppose the only other major difference is the vows,” she said, with a faint shrug. “Some Muggles like to write their own, but – I think that'd be embarrassing, for us. You don't strike me as being particularly poetic.”

 

His eyes narrowed a bit at her words. “That's presumptuous. What are vows?”

 

“Well, you have the standard ones that the priests usually say – it's a list of things you promise to do for each other.” At his blank look, she huffed a laugh. “Okay. In the traditional version, the priest tells you to repeat this after him: _I, Draco Malfoy, take you, Hermione Granger, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have, and to hold, from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part._ ”

 

“Sounds rather dry,” he drawled, his gaze locked lazily on her.

 

She smiled, shrugged. “It is. That's why Muggles like to write their own. But the principle's the same, you're basically promising to be a list of things for the other person and to love them forever.”

 

He spoke more quietly, almost hesitant. “Do you want to include the vows?”

 

“Oh, I don't care,” she said, waving a dismissive hand and turning her attention back to the parchment. “You may consider yourself to be poetically inclined, but I have all the poetry of a dying mongoose. I definitely don't think I could ever write my own.”

 

He didn't respond for a moment, and then suddenly he leaned an elbow on the table to half-turn towards her. “There's something out there that requires _writing_ and you think you couldn't do it?” His eyebrows had lifted incredulously at her, but after perusing her face for a moment, he grimaced a bit and nodded. “You're likely right. You don't seem to be very creative. I bet I could do it quite well,” he added. “Maybe I'll write them for both of us, since you can't string together a coherent sentence that isn't horrifically clinical.”

 

Hermione's eyes were slits. “I see what you're doing,” she accused.

 

He was the very picture of innocence. Which meant that everything about him screamed _LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE_. “What?”

 

“You're trying to get me all riled up so I agree to write a stupid vow, so I can make an idiot of myself at my _own wedding_.”

 

“I'm _agreeing_ with you that you can't do it, and if you did, you _would_ look like an idiot at your own wedding,” he disagreed, in a placid tone. Hermione _knew_ he was playing her like a fiddle, but she still found herself grinding her teeth together, deeply irritated at the very idea that anyone could think she didn't have the capacity to write a perfectly _fine_ vow. “Would you like me to write yours?”

 

“ _No_. I'm going to ask all seated to _grade_ them as soon as we're done,” she defended, growing a tad shrill again. “And we'll _see_ who can't write a vow.”

 

“Perfect,” he agreed, amiably, and wrote 'vow' next to 'kiss.'

 

Hermione stared at the word, the realization of what she'd just committed to sinking in. God damn this sneaky, stupid snake she was marrying. And besides, what was she going to do, declare her _love_ for Draco Malfoy? The best vows they could _possibly_ come up with under this sham of a law probably ran along the lines of _'I promise not to be perfectly awful to you, make you wish you were dead, or accidentally kill you by feeding you something you're allergic to that I didn't know about.'_ Not very romantic. Every eye in the house would be as dry as a thousand deserts.

 

Draco had already moved down the list. “I have our dance lessons scheduled at the Manor, since the ballroom is already there. Are you alright with that?”

 

“That's fine,” she murmured, still staring at the word. “When do they start?”

 

“Wednesday night. We'll do Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And Saturdays, if you can't pick up the steps,” he added. He eyed her for a moment, and then wrote down: _Mon, Wed, Fri, Sat_. “We'll do Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.”

 

She glared at him, not appreciating what he was insinuating. “It doesn't look that hard. It's like the regular waltz, just a little faster.”

 

“And Sundays,” he murmured, writing that down, too.

 

“Oh, come on.”

 

“Actually, Hermione, the Viennese waltz is not 'just a little faster,'” he informed her, in a curt tone. “It is twice as fast, operating at 180 beats per minute, but while speed is the main thing differentiating it from an English waltz, there is another factor: A marked anticipation of the second beat that draws out the first step, which, if done incorrectly, makes you look like a dying horse.”

 

She scoffed. “If it's so bloody hard, why don't we do something else?”

 

“I told you, it's traditional.”

 

“Sod tradition.”

 

“ _Or_ just go to your dance lessons and pretend you're learning physical Arithmancy, if it will get you to take it _seriously_ ,” he snapped, and her eyes widened a bit. He was glaring down at the paper, his mouth a thin line.

 

She had _not_ realized that, apparently, this dance was a Big Deal. Hermione sobered a bit as she watched the tense lines of his profile, feeling a little guilty over the fuss she'd been throwing the past week. Swallowing, she nodded, trying to look appropriately serious. “Alright,” she said, softly. “Fine, I'll learn it. That's fine.”

 

He relaxed a smidgen, nodding, and Hermione continued to examine his face as he continued writing on his list. She'd studied wizarding wedding ceremonies rather a lot in the past five months, and in _none_ of them contained a perfectly executed Viennese Waltz. She wondered if it really was a tradition, but one that formed after all the current literature on bonding ceremonies, or if it was simply a _Malfoy_ tradition. She supposed it was most likely the latter.

 

Either way, she wasn't looking very much forward to it. “Are you hungry?” she offered, eager to talk about anything else. They'd been seated at her kitchen table for the last three hours. “We can go back to that sushi place.”

 

His quill paused, and he stared at the parchment as he considered it. Then he set his quill down and stood, and she cheered a bit as she jumped up to put on her shoes.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The dance instructor was a German wizard that laid on the abuse, both verbal and physical, very heavily. After an hour of trying to learn the dance and being told that she: had hooves like a donkey, the grace of a bag full of dirt, looked like a dying emu, and had all the physical charisma of a turkey reuben sandwich, Hermione was ready to pull out her wand and give the man a _reason_ to call her names. Every time he corrected her form, he did so by smacking the offending appendage with a long, straight stick that Hermione had quickly come to loathe with every fiber of her being.

 

“ _Ow_ ,” she yelped, when the stick hit her calf. She whirled in Draco's arms, her eyes ablaze. “You--!” Draco pulled her back, and she grit her teeth at the man over her shoulder.

 

“You must _feel_ your partner!” Felix exclaimed, jabbing her with the point of the stick. His accent was almost cartoon-y. “Let his movements define yours, anticipate where he is going. Then you mold yourself to his movements. Until you can move with him, you do not give him the _freedom_ to move. You make the dance a sticky mess, like the tar!”

 

Hermione grumbled something uncharitable under her breath, and was rewarded with another vicious poke.

 

“Again!” Felix demanded, clapping his hands.

 

The music started up again, and she looked down as Draco tried to step with her, at their feet. That little drawn-out moment after the first step was _really_ difficult to become accustomed to; Draco had been right about that. The stick materialized under her nose, a poignant threat, and she jerked her head back to stare into Draco's amused expression.

 

She stumbled as she missed that little pause, _again_ , and made a frustrated noise. Felix cut the music off, obviously at the end of his rope. His mustache twitched with fury as he regarded her, and then he turned his attention to Draco.

 

“Mr. Draco,” he said, gesturing helplessly at her. “You are asking me to make a swan of this elephant-footed boar?”

 

“Felix, you're one of the best instructors in the world. If anyone can teach her, it's you,” Draco soothed. Earlier he'd explained that this man had been his own dance teacher, when he'd been growing up. He'd also said that the man was 'exacting, but fair.' Hermione _ardently_ disagreed.

 

Felix huffed. “No! I cannot! You are asking me to make a _cake_ out of _sewage_! I cannot eat that cake, Mr. Draco!” He turned from them both, dramatically, his nose lifted in the air.

 

“Now you see here--” Hermione began, pulling her arms from Draco and reaching for the wand in her pocket. Her fiance grappled with her hands, deflecting them from her wand and finally grabbing her wrists. He did all this without even sparing her a glance, too busy trying to wheedle Felix. She was almost impressed at how readily he knew where her hands would be going.

 

“Now, Felix,” Draco said, cajoling. His face didn't betray any of the battle he was warring with Hermione's itchy wand-finger. “I know you're not one to back down from a challenge. And surely someone of your professional _expertise_...”

 

Hermione snorted, and Draco squeezed her wrists a bit. “Ow,” she grumbled, sullen.

 

“We will try again tomorrow,” Felix finally agreed, begrudgingly. “Now, take her away. I cannot _bear_ to look upon her and her wooden puppet feet.” Without turning back to them, he waved his hand in airy dismissal.

 

She yanked on her wrists a bit as Draco led her out of the ballroom, but he didn't release her. “Let me go. I'm going to turn that man into a _walrus_ ,” she seethed, as Draco led her into the foyer and up the staircase. “And then I'm going to dump him into an _oubliette_ and let him _die_ there.”

 

“You do _not_ take criticism well,” Draco observed, finally letting her go when they'd made it to the first floor.

 

“The man's an absolute neanderthal!”

 

“Yes,” he agreed, then grimaced slightly. “But--” She leveled an impressive glare at him, and he held his hands up in pre-emptive surrender. “ _But_ he's not _wrong_.”

 

She gasped, throwing her hands to her hips. “You think I'm a _sewage cake_?” she shrieked.

 

“Well, in terms of the Viennese waltz, I'm not convinced a sewage cake wouldn't do a little better,” he admitted. Ignoring her gawping at the comment, he looked down at her feet. “You didn't twist your ankle on the way over, or anything, did you?”

 

At a loss for what else to do, Hermione kicked him in the shin. He grunted, immediately bowling over to cradle it as she turned to stalk towards the library's Floo.

 

“Merlin,” he hissed. “Hermione! Come back.”

 

She didn't, because he sounded like he was kind of laughing underneath that pleading tone. Chin lifted, she stormed into the library. Theo Nott didn't move a muscle in his chair by the fireplace, but his eyes did lift to her as she stomped across the room and reached for the Floo powder.

 

“Did you have fun at your lesson?” he asked, politely, although he also sounded like he'd heard _everything_ from all the way up here and was dreadfully amused.

 

“Stuff it!” she ordered, grabbing a fistful of the powder as Draco ran into the library after her.

 

He jogged across the space, still trying to keep his smile repressed. “Hermione,” he wheedled, grabbing her shoulder before she could toss the powder in. “You'll do better next time,” he promised, after turning her back around to face him. “Everyone's awful when they first get started.”

 

“Are they _sewage cake_ awful?” she asked, archly.

 

The smile was starting to come out, and Draco quickly schooled it back a bit, until it was just a tell-tale twitching at the corners of his lips. “You're not a sewage cake,” he assured her, his tone warm with mirth. Sensing that she was softening a bit, he added, “Also, I didn't make a verbal note of this earlier, but you are an absolute _vision_ today.”

 

“Shut up,” she huffed, but her cheeks pinkened a bit. “I'm not one of your daft Slytherin girls. You can't ply me with empty compliments.”

 

“That was a _full_ compliment. Overfilled, even.” He put his hand under her fist, palm up.

 

She looked at it, waffling, and then sighed. Begrudgingly, she opened her fist and dropped the powder into his hand. “This isn't because you said I look pretty,” she added, primly, as he put the powder back on the mantle.

 

“Of course not,” he agreed, readily. “By the way, I'm glad you decided to stay. Otherwise I would not have had the opportunity to tell you that Father had left one of his books in the Northeast Reading Room.” He did his best not to notice how raptly that caught every single ounce of her attention. “Something from his private study. He'd mentioned you might like to read it, should you have the time.”

 

Hermione hesitated. Then, very woodenly, she said, “Well, I suppose it would be _bad manners_ not to read it.”

 

He sat opposite Theo, smiling at her. “I know for a fact that you are aching to sprint in there, so go ahead,” he said, chuckling. She made a face at him, but did head off for the room at a fairly decent clip. He heard him offer Theo: “Want a brandy?”

 

“Certainly,” his friend agreed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The book was on ancient runes – but not the ones she'd learned at Hogwarts. No, these were _older_. These were from the first times man ever tried to make shapes represent sounds. On top of that, she had a sneaking suspicion they were the same runes from that book Lucius warned her to never try a spell out of. She spent all of five minutes wondering why he'd given her this book before she set about devouring it at a rapid pace.

 

It was late by the time she took her eyes off the pages. She had to go to work the next day, and a quick glance at her watch confirmed that it was well after eleven. Sighing with regret, she put the book back on the desk, hoping that the offer to read it wasn't one-night-only.

 

She almost wanted to take it home, but that was a surefire way of ensuring Lucius _never shared_ _again_ if she'd ever heard one.

 

Standing, she took a moment to stretch, and padded out of the room towards the main library. She caught Draco and Theo's voices, and huffed a soft laugh; she couldn't believe they were still chatting. She was just outside the door when she could finally make out the individual words.

 

“But you still invited him?” Theo asked.

 

“I have to. He's still a friend, and a close one, even if he is being a right and proper arsehole,” Draco muttered. “I suppose I should count myself lucky that he hasn't managed to get Hermione twisted around his finger. He's usually a better read of people, but he really mucked that one up, from what I can tell. The woman is _not_ easily seduced.”

 

“No,” Theo agreed, thoughtfully. “It would have been better to appeal to her sense of empathy. A shame it didn't occur to him. He's got a good pity story, there.”

 

Hermione frowned, leaning against the wall next to the door. Eavesdropping was all sorts of wrong, but – well, she'd always known she was missing a crucial part of the story. Something Draco wasn't telling her.

 

Draco sighed. “It's not like I _wanted_ to marry her. It was my parents who arranged it. It's not like I _set out_ to undermine his romantic efforts. He wasn't even _talking_ to her. He hadn't talked to her since Hogwarts, for Merlin's sake.”

 

Her frown intensified. Was he talking about her?

 

There was silence for a moment, but Theo eventually broke it. “It wouldn't have worked, anyway. His mother _hates_ the Greengrasses.”

 

Hermione felt her mouth fall open a bit. Blaise and – Astoria Greengrass? So, what, this entire twisted game had just been him seeking revenge for Draco wooing his _woman_? Well, if this story could get _any more_ medieval, she was prepared to hear it.

 

“ _And_ he hadn't spoken to her since Hogwarts,” Draco repeated. “How the hell was I to know that he fancied her? He'd never even said so, to me. Not until after we were practically engaged already.”

 

“Well, you know Blaise,” Theo drawled. “He's always been obsessed with what he can't have. Once he gets them, he gets bored and moves on. That's always been his way. I doubt Astoria would have been markedly different.”

 

“What about Hermione?” Draco's voice had lowered, and she strained to hear. “Do you think he really meant it, fancying her?”

 

“Who knows. It's Blaise. I doubt _he_ even knows if he really fancied her, at this point.”

 

“And what if he doesn't get over it, then? He's going to keep harassing her? He's going to keep trying to shag her?” Draco demanded, his voice growing more and more heated. “He's lucky he's not _already_ on the far end of my wand.”

 

“He's lucky he's not on the far end of _hers_.”

 

Hermione smiled. She _liked_ Theo, all things considered. Of all the Slytherins, he was by far the least Death Eater-y – hell, he even studied Muggle topics at a Muggle University. On top of all that, she couldn't remember him ever using the term 'Mudblood' in school, and given how popular that had been with everyone else in his house, it was quite a feat.

 

“Don't you develop a crush on her, too,” Draco joked, a little weakly. “I'm running out of friends over the woman, already. Pansy hasn't spoken to me in weeks, and she declined the wedding invitation, too.”

 

“She'll come,” Theo said, quietly confident. “And probably wearing a big, gaudy white dress. You know she can't resist the temptation to make a scene.”

 

Draco laughed, softly.

 

“Besides, from what I hear, you're getting on well enough with her friends,” Theo added, and the laughter stopped – almost guiltily. “Which is not something I particularly care about,” he added, in an almost soothing tone. “In any case, despite _our_ reputations at Hogwarts, that group got up to an awful lot of mischief.”

 

“They're funny,” her fiance said, quietly. “And... surprisingly, very nice. They still make all the same old jokes, you know, ferret and all that. But it's like, it's-- kinder. Warmer.”

 

“Yes, I believe that's called 'teasing,' and lots of humans in society engage in it.” Theo's voice was so dry, it made Hermione ache for water. “It builds community and establishes sexual rapport. Also known as 'flirting,'” he added, in a clinical tone, as Draco seemed to choke (probably on his brandy). “You flirt with her quite a lot. It's almost painful to look at.”

 

“ _You're_ painful to look at,” Draco muttered. “And she's my fiancee.”

 

“Right, because of a nonsense law, not because you fell in love with her,” he returned. “Given _that_ premise, your flirting strikes me as... notable.”

 

“ _Please_ stop talking about me as though I'm one of your sociology essays,” Draco grumbled, and Hermione nearly bowled over from _shock_ that Draco even knew what sociology _was_. “Why shouldn't I flirt with her? I'm going to be married to her for ten years, and we're going to have children together. She's pretty, and she's fun, and she doesn't _always_ make me want to hex my head into pieces... Why not make it pleasant?”

 

“Is that all it is?” Theo asked, doubtfully.

 

“Don't. Don't analyze me. Stop it,” Draco ordered.

 

Hermione entered the library in time to see Draco pointing threateningly at his friend. “I'm knackered,” she said. “Do you think Lucius will leave the book out for me to finish tomorrow? I only got halfway through.”

 

“ _Only_ half? You're losing your touch,” he drawled, as she moved towards the fireplace to grab the Floo powder.

 

“Yes, only half,” she agreed, placidly. He lifted his snifter to take another sip of his brandy, and she reached up casually and pressed on the bottom, sending half of the contents onto his spluttering face. “And it's a _dense_ book. Good night, Draco. Night, Theo.”

 

“Good night,” Theo returned, watching with amusement as Draco tried to scrub his face dry.

 

She disappeared into the Floo.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was annoyed when she entered her living room. She knew that.

 

She even thought she _should_ examine the emotion, and determine its cause, but the problem with that was... well, she already knew the answer. And she didn't like it. Whenever she tried to devote a thought to it, it was as though her brain were skirting away from it. The knowledge of it made her deeply uncomfortable and claustrophobic.

 

Hermione _liked_ Draco Malfoy.

 

And she wanted him to like her back. Hearing him defend his flirting with her as simply a way to make the next ten years easier to stomach had wounded her ego a little. And it didn't match with his impassioned speech outside the coffee shop.

 

There, he'd told her he was glad the law was there to put them together.

 

And just now he'd sounded less than enthused.

 

He hadn't sounded like he was lying _either_ time, and that didn't sit right with her, at all. Hermione stared up at her living room ceiling from the couch, forcing herself to comb over the uncomfortable, panic-inducing thoughts. First up, she _really_ liked him. She could see herself falling in _love_ with him, one day, which was just about the most terrifying prospect she could have ever imagined. She wasn't sure any good had ever come of having tender feelings for a man like Draco Malfoy.

 

Secondly, she was rapidly reaching the point where she could no longer pretend that the idea of him being impartial to her was _just fine_. And that was way worse than the first thing, because it made her feel absolutely pathetic.

 

As for figuring out what to _do_ with that revelation, well. She didn't even know where to _start_.

 


	40. Back-Burner It

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty: Back-Burner It**

 

…

 

That stupid little comment Draco had made in the library had been driving her insane. They met every morning for coffee, as usual, and she would spend the entire hour staring at his facial expressions, trying to detect the slightest hint of prevarication. She caught the occasional weird, searching glance from him, but she was pretty sure that was because she wasn't being as subtle as she really wanted to be. However, although it was clear he'd noticed something was going on, he didn't mention it. No, he was more than content to let the conversation progress like normal.

 

Their four-times-a-week dance lessons went more or less normally, because her unwavering hatred of Felix was about a thousand times stronger than her slight suspicion of Draco. Although Draco assured her that she _was_ improving, she saw no discernible difference in how frustrated Felix became with her.

 

Harry was the first to verbally notice her funk, on Saturday, nearly ten days after that night in the library, and ten days of watching her closely but silently.

 

“Alright,” he finally said, loudly, halting all conversation. Ron and Ginny stopped chatting about Quidditch, and Susan looked up from her magazine. Harry looked at everyone present, letting his eyes linger on each of them in turn, and then pointed at Hermione, who had glanced up from her book. “Has anyone else noticed this?”

 

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Ron scoffed. “But it looked like a _gentle_ sort of discontent? I thought maybe it would dissipate on its own if we just kind of let it ride its course.”

 

Ginny was nodding, thoughtfully. “She looks kind of like... what's that bald super-villain?”

 

“Lex Luthor?” Susan mused.

 

“Yeah! When he's _plotting_ and looking generally nefarious. She's got that kind of look about her. Like this.” Ginny steepled her fingers together and glared enigmatically across the top of them. She put on her best villainous voice and murmured, “The townspeople suspect _nothing_.”

 

Hermione made a scoffing noise. “What! _What_ are you all on about? You lot get barmier with each passing second, these days.” She picked her book back up and buried her face in it, scowling.

 

“George and I started a pool, actually, last Sunday dinner at the Burrow,” Ron commented.

 

“Oh, did you? I joined that, too,” Ginny laughed. “What'd you put your Galleon on?”

 

“That Malfoy and her are arguing about their wedding décor, _or_ the wedding clothing,” Ron said, enunciating the second part. “I made George add that part. He's always nicking my money on stupid little technicalities.”

 

Ginny looked thoughtful. “That's a good bet, with the wedding coming up, but _I_ picked that his parents did something that got her all fussy, like they said she had broom hair, or something? She seems _offended_ more than anything else. It's an _emotionally charged_ sort of irritation.” She demonstrated what she meant by framing her hands around an invisible circle. Apparently that meant 'irritated emotions.'

 

Hermione was staring at both of them balefully over the top of her book. She hoped her eyes were expressing the amount of hate she _felt_ , just then.

 

“What'd George bet?” Harry asked, morbidly curious.

 

“Fetish,” Ron and Ginny said, at the same time. Ginny shot her brother a grin and clarified, “He thinks Draco disclosed a gross sexual fetish that he wants Hermione to participate in, and she's gotten her knickers in a twist over it. That's the _bet_ , but his _actual_ thought is that Draco's a diaper-wearer.”

 

“Ew,” Susan gasped, horrified.

 

Hermione slammed her book shut, since apparently they were _not_ going to let her read. “That's _quite_ enough,” she snapped. “Honestly, the amount of extra time you all have on your hands is simply staggering.”

 

“Stagrin!” Albus piped up from the floor, where he was laying on his belly and combing his chubby little fingers through the rug.

 

Ron sighed. “Great, now you've gone and taught him a _vocabulary_ word. I hope you're happy.”

 

Harry chuckled, leaning forward in his recliner to scoop the boy up. Albus squealed in glee as Harry bounced him a bit before settling him in his lap. “Seriously, Hermione. Stop brooding. Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not as disastrous as you're believing it is.” Hermione glared at him, her face pinching a bit. Harry gasped and held Albus up in front of his face to catch the glare. “Stop! You'll make him cry.”

 

James chose that moment to come careening into the room with his stuffed dragon, which he threw up in the air. He'd been trying to make the damn thing fly since Hermione and Draco last babysat him. “No! Crash,” he groaned, as it tumbled to the floor. He gave it a pitiful look, nudging it with his foot.

 

Still annoyed, Hermione dug her wand out and charmed the damn thing, still scowling at Harry over the top of Albus' head. James bellowed in victory as the dragon flapped its wings and flew up the stairs to the first floor. “I'm not _brooding_. It's called _thinking_ , and it's something I think you could all use a little more experience with,” she huffed.

 

“Oh,” Ron said, eyebrows raising. “I was wrong. It wasn't a gentle discontent, at all. She's in a _right_ foul mood. Look, since the Ferret's _obviously_ the root of this evil, let's make _him_ come over here and deal with her.”

 

“Oh, that seems mean,” Ginny drawled. “He's only just started up with her, he doesn't know what he's getting into, there. I bet he doesn't even know what he's done wrong.”

 

“Well, yeah, that's a given,” Harry agreed.

 

“How is that a _given_?” Hermione exclaimed, outrage filling her expression. Of course, the fact that it was true did _not_ make her feel any better about it. Harry rolled his eyes at her, good-naturedly, and she dug for her wand again.

 

Harry lifted Albus again. “Hey! No! Holding a _child_ , over here!”

 

“Give him to Ginny,” she ordered, directing him to do so with the point of her wand.

 

“No way,” he said, cuddling Albus even closer. She tried to think of a hex she could wing at him that wouldn't endanger her favorite godchild, and grumbled when she couldn't, shoving her wand back in her pocket. Harry smiled in victory and relaxed into the recliner again, kissing the top of his son's head. “You should probably _not_ be in a ferocious, ungodly snit when you get married, you know. Heard that's bad luck.”

 

“I am sick to _death_ of all this talk about luck,” Hermione groaned, flopping sideways on the couch and rolling into it, putting her back to them. “Narcissa has been doing some stupid medieval version of _feng shui_ on the whole stupid ceremony and it's driving me absolutely crazy.”

 

“Well, you were halfway there, already,” Ron murmured, and a second later he yelped and threw himself to the floor as she threw a stinging hex at him.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The stick smacked her calf, and she hissed at the sting of it, glowering steadily up at Draco. She'd realized by lesson six that Draco was the reason she was even learning this ridiculous dance from a bipolar German man, and had transferred her growing fury from Felix to her fiance. “You're doing better,” he promised her, smiling slightly. He seemed to find her anger to be _cute_ , which only made it worse. Her heady glare intensified, and his smile widened slightly in reaction.

 

“Then tell him to stop bloody well smacking me with that thing,” she muttered.

 

“I said better, not _perfect_ ,” he corrected. “But he's smacking you over minor corrections, now. Also, you must have noticed that he is no longer ending the lessons an hour early in indignation over your lack of grace.”

 

Hermione's eyes narrowed a bit. “When I'm lady of this Manor, I'm going to turn this stupid ballroom into the International Center for the Advancement of House-Elves,” she threatened.

 

His smile only widened, his eyes warming. “We'll dance outside.”

 

The stick whipped forward and stung her ankle, and she hopped a bit as she winced. “Yes, good,” Felix commended. “Like that! You must draw it out!”

 

“He's going to _cripple_ me,” she said, bitterly. “You'll have to drag me around the dancefloor in a wheelchair.” She did manage to draw the step out, if only because her ankle was _throbbing_ with pain. Felix, at least, had nothing bad to say about it.

 

“You'll be a radiant cripple,” Draco assured her, and the music came to an end.

 

He stopped, and Hermione stumbled a bit as she tried to keep going. Not _once_ had Felix ever let them get so far as to the end of the song. He always stopped mid-way through and then began it again. She blinked up at Draco in bemusement, and then turned to look at Felix, the final notes of the music ringing in her ears.

 

The man was stroking his chin, watching her. “You will not be painful to watch on your wedding,” he finally said. “But so much work to still be done! There is not enough _time_!”

 

Grumbling, he began gathering up his things. Hermione realized the two hours were up, which was another first; she usually stomped off well before this time after Felix called her something awful. Lately, his favorite thing to call her was Donkey Toes. She had no idea what that meant. She didn't _think_ donkeys had an international reputation for being particularly bad at dancing.

 

As she watched him pack up, she felt Draco's fingers on her chin, drawing her gaze back to him. “I told you that you were getting better,” he reminded her, smugly. But his eyes were warm as he looked at her, making the smugness seem more like a superficial act than usual.

 

She heaved a sigh, putting her hands on her hips. “You won't be embarrassed to be seen with me out there, then?”

 

“I could never be embarrassed to be seen with you, even if you _were_ a donkey-toed sewage cake,” he assured her, gravely. Hermione stared at him for a beat and then started laughing, some of the tension from the long dance lesson finally breaking. Draco grinned when he heard it, and dipped his head down to steal a kiss from her. That startled her into silence, and he pulled back with a contented noise. “It's been a while since I heard that. I'd really missed it,” he admitted, softly.

 

She swallowed. “What, laughing?”

 

“ _You_ laughing. You've been glaring at me nonstop for almost two weeks, now,” he said, with an annoyed noise. “I don't even remember _doing_ anything. Except these dance lessons, and you _need_ them, Hermione.”

 

Feeling her face heat, she ducked her chin a bit. Maybe she _had_ taken it a bit far. After all, he hadn't really _done_ anything except try and save face with his male friend.

 

Which is something she'd heard _Ron_ do, when he'd been a stupid teenager.

 

“You know, me not laughing isn't that rare. I didn't laugh once during fourth year,” she said, raising her head to look him in the eye.

 

Draco blinked, and then a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as he realized that she was _lying_. For fun. Like he did. His eyes lit up a bit with excitement at the novelty of having Hermione _initiate_ this kind of Slytherin banter. “That's not true,” he accused. “I saw you laugh several times during that year. You laughed twenty-two times at the Yule Ball alone.”

 

“You were _not_ counting and so that's obviously not true,” she accused back.

 

“Were _you_ counting?”

 

“No--”

 

“So you don't know that it's not true,” he pointed out, reasonably. “And you can't prove it's not true. I could very well be right, for all you know.”

 

She scoffed. “The sheer chances that _that number_ that you picked at random--”

 

“No, I counted,” he said, in a serious tone. “And you can't disprove that, so I win.” She pinched his arm, wrinkling her nose at him, and he grimaced and rubbed at the spot. “And I've come to realize that you getting violent with me means that you _know_ I've won,” he added, a bit smugly. “Your violence is like a big, white flag of surrender.”

 

“It is _not_.”

 

“'You win, Draco,'” he said, in a ridiculous falsetto, and he reached over to lightly slap her shoulder. “'Another excellent point, Draco!'” He poked her side, and she squeaked, clamping her arms against her ribs and backing away from him. He chased her as she stumbled back, poking at her sides and her stomach and her neck. “'I'm too much of a righteous swot to ever admit it, but you're right _all_ the time, Draco!'”

 

She was laughing and squealing as she rapidly stumbled backwards. “I would _never_ say that!” Her foot caught on something, and she screamed a bit as she went tumbling backwards.

 

An arm locked around her waist, and she was stopped abruptly, with a pained grunt. Draco hauled her back up, wrapping his arms around her back and holding her tightly against him. Her heart was still beating a little fast from her near-fall, and she lightly wrapped her own arms around his waist automatically, realizing as she did so that he had buried his face against her hair and her neck, his breath hot against her ear. For a moment, they just stood like that.

 

“Draco?” she murmured.

 

At her words, he seemed to come back to life, and he pulled back enough to plant another kiss on her – but not the little peck from before. This one was hard, and demanding, and deep. She fairly melted against him at the force of it, and he pulled her even tighter against his chest. She freed her arms to snake up, around his neck, and almost--

 

“Oh,” came a voice, from the ballroom entrance, light and feminine.

 

Draco and Hermione sprang guiltily away from each other, both of them fastidiously pulling on their clothes to make sure that they were where they were supposed to be. Their faces reddened as they met the gazes of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Lucius looked _insufferably_ amused, and Narcissa looked surprised, but also a little pleased.

 

Hermione straightened her shirt for the fiftieth time in the last ten seconds, and took a half-step towards the other entrance. “I was just-- home, you know-- and--”

 

“She had something in her eye,” Draco muttered. The back of his neck was as red as his face.

 

“Is that how they're getting things out of eyes, these days?” Lucius wondered, in an innocent tone. “St. Mungos must be growing quite interesting.”

 

“We didn't want to interrupt,” Narcissa added, already herding Lucius towards the door. “We were just wondering if Hermione would like to stay for dinner. Of course, we can't accept no for an answer.” _Of course._ “Dinner will be at eight, as per usual. Hermione, your clothes are still upstairs.” She quickly shooed Lucius out of the ballroom, although the man very much looked like he wanted to stay and heckle them some more.

 

That left Hermione and Draco fidgeting awkwardly, not quite looking at each other. “Eight. That's two hours from now,” she murmured. “What are we supposed to--”

 

“Want to see my room?” he asked, suddenly.

 

Hermione hesitated, looking at him from the corners of her eyes. Because yes, she was _deathly_ curious about his room. But she wasn't sure if she could shag him in there with his parents _just down the hallway_ , and she was pretty sure that was what he meant. “I-- I don't know if-- your parents--”

 

He stared at her for a second before comprehension dawned, and then laughed, grabbing her hand. “Come on,” he said, pulling her out of the ballroom and towards the stairs.

 

The blushes on both of them had largely faded by the time they reached the second floor. He pulled her past the Tree of Knowledge suite, and they passed another carved door across the hallway with a bear and a princess standing opposite each other, both wearing crowns. Then, on her side of the hallway, the play-room door – it showed hounds running after a wily fox in the woods. Across the hallway again was another mystery door, this one with a centaur rearing back and aiming his arrow at the moon.

 

Then, Draco's door. She took one look at the carving on the door and snorted. “A _serpent_? Isn't that a little on-the-nose, for your parents?”

 

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, shooting her a mischievous look. “It's not just _any_ serpent. It's the World Serpent,” he corrected her, affecting her prim, bossy tone rather effortlessly. Hermione glanced at the carving again and saw that the serpent had curved around and was biting its own tail. In the middle of its body was some land and mountain peaks, and water poured over its scales and into the nothingness below. “When he was thrown out of heaven, they left him out in the ocean to perish,” Draco added, resting his hand on the snake's head. “And instead, he started drinking the whole damn thing, and grew so large he could circle the world. He's a little hard to get rid of, you see. Just like us Malfoys.”

 

Throwing her a cocky grin, he opened the door and pulled her inside.

 

“You know, Thor kills him in the Apocalypse,” Hermione informed him, in a dry tone. He waved her comment away, and she let the conversation drop as her eyes traveled around the room curiously.

 

The interior was wooden with green accents, which she wanted to roll her eyes at. At least it was a _nice_ green – sort of earthy in tone, rather than the garish colors of Slytherin. The serpent motif was as ubiquitous here as the Tree of Knowledge was in her room. Like her room, his window faced the front drive.

 

Curious, she strode across the room and opened his bathroom door. “Oh, my God,” she intoned. “This is-- wow. This is possibly the most ridiculously garish thing I've ever seen.” The marble was black, with red veins.

 

“Don't be jealous,” he scoffed. When she opened his closet, next, he exclaimed, “ _Hey_!”

 

“You said you were going to show me your room,” she reminded him, walking into his closet. It looked bigger than hers. It took her a few seconds to realize that it had an extending charm on it. “Good God, Draco, how many _clothes_ does a single person need?”

 

“I _did not_ bring you in here so you could gape at my clothes,” he said, from the wardrobe door. Hermione grabbed a pair of silken pajamas and slowly pulled them out, turning to raise her eyebrows at him. His eyes widened a bit, and he quickly strode in, stuffed the silk back into line, and hauled her by the elbow out of his closet. “That was a _gift_ ,” he defended himself, weakly.

 

“From who?” she challenged.

 

“Nevermind!” He closed the door firmly, some of the pink splotches returning to his cheeks.

 

She started laughing, again, and when he shot her an aggravated look, it only made her giggles worse. She put her hand to her mouth to try and stifle them. “From you?” she managed. “Did you-- for yourself? Do you _like_ silk pajamas, Draco?”

 

“I was just _curious_ ,” he groaned, and she burst out laughing. “You know, _suddenly_ , having you in here doesn't seem like such a _grand_ idea.” Muttering to himself, he moved towards his desk.

 

“Put them on.”

 

He stopped short at her sudden request, and turned back to her, eyes narrowed. “Pardon me?”

 

“Put them on,” she repeated, slowly. “I want to see you in luxurious silk jammies. That's what I want, and that's now why we're here.” She was grinning so widely, her cheeks were starting to hurt.

 

“No,” he said, flatly.

 

She chewed the inside of her lip, thinking. “If you put them on, it would make any _snogging_ that might occur feel just heavenly. So _smooth_ ,” she said, thoughtfully. She almost started laughing again when his eyes became suspicious slits, but managed to keep her face thoughtfully nonchalant. “I'm just pointing that out. That's all.”

 

“Are you saying there _will_ be snogging?” he asked, keenly. When she hesitated, he huffed and started for his desk, again.

 

“Alright!” she agreed. Draco stopped, and slowly pivoted on his heel to regard her. But he didn't move, just waited for her to say the words that would damn herself. Hermione bit back another smile, looking up at the ceiling as she waited for her embarrassment to abate. Then she said, “Alright, there _will_ be snogging. In your jammies.”

 

He took a half-step towards her. “If you burst into any more laughter, we have to do more than snog,” he bargained.

 

“That's not fair, I can't help it if I laugh!”

 

“If you laugh,” he drawled, considering her for a long moment. His eyes went half-lidded, and he pointed at the bathroom. “You get into the tub with me. Naked.”

 

“And _what_ , you'll wash my hair?” she demanded, incredulously.

 

“Yes,” he agreed, perfectly seriously. “I'll get you all cleaned up for dinner.”

 

“Dinner with your _parents_ ,” she protested. “I can't get all-- like that in _their house_. It's weird. And it feels a little disrespectful.”

 

Draco stared at her. “You do realize that they fully expected you to _get pregnant_ while living here?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at her pointedly. “And I like to think of myself as evidence that they understand how that works.”

 

That was a fair point. “Still.”

 

He crossed his arms. “Are you saying that you'll start laughing if you see me in those things?” She shook her head, and he overrode her, speaking louder. “You _must_ be, since you're sitting there trying to weasel your way out of the one punishment you'd incur for such a transgression. Now I don't know if I want to put them on, at all. I don't think I'll feel like snogging you if you burst a kidney laughing at me.”

 

“Oh, you are _such_ a baby,” she teased. “Alright. Alright. Alright? Fine.”

 

His arms uncrossed immediately, and he smiled brilliantly at her as he moved towards the closet. “Good. That wasn't so hard, was it?” She stuck her tongue out at him. He disappeared inside, and then leaned back out the door. “Just to be clear, if I come back out here and you start laughing, it's bath-time.”

 

“I said _yes_ , you prat.”

 

Draco shrugged and headed inside, mostly closing the wardrobe door behind him. There was some shuffling around in there that took a little too long, and eventually she started perusing his bookshelf. She'd turned her head a bit to read the spines when she heard the door open again. Turning to face him, she stared in shock as he came out of the closet in _purple silk pajamas_ , doing jazz-hands with a dumb grin on his face.

 

And of course she laughed. As soon as the sound escaped her, she clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

 

He stopped doing jazz-hands and pointed at her. “Ha!”

 

“That doesn't count!” she argued.

 

“I came back out here and you _started laughing_ ,” he repeated, triumphantly. “It's bath-time.” She started to protest, and he insisted, “You didn't say I couldn't be doing something silly on top of it all.”

 

“As if you _needed_ to. Those things look absolutely horrendous.”

 

He pointed at her again. “I don't think you should be _too_ free with that word while you've got that unwieldy shrubbery planted firmly on your head,” he huffed, heading for the bathroom and pulling out his wand. He leaned in, presumably to put some water in the tub _with_ said wand, and added, “Which, by the way, I'm very much looking forward to washing.”

 

Hermione crossed her arms. “Didn't you want to snog, first?” she reminded him.

 

“I plan to do that, too.” He crossed the room towards her, a smirk planted on his face. When he reached her, he spread his arms to better display the pajamas. “Any _more_ chuckles you'd like to add?” he invited.

 

She looked at the expanse of silk, and reached out, smoothing her palm over his stomach. “It _does_ feel rather nice,” she admitted.

 

“But what's underneath is better?”

 

“Please,” she said, scornfully. “Your skin is _not_ silk. And it's got hair on it.”

 

He let his arms drop. “You really know how to destroy a mood, Hermione. Is that something they teach in Muggle schools, poking at male egos?”

 

“Your ego is a Faberge _egg_.” She slipped her hands down the silk, underneath the hem, and smoothed them back up over his stomach. “You know, I don't think you've really thought through this. You have no idea what an awful, mind-numbing task it is, trying to wash _my_ hair.”

 

He swallowed, his mind already lost to the feeling of her palms sliding up over his chest. “It can't be _that_ hard. Just scrub the soap in and rinse.”

 

“I am not letting you within a _league_ of my hair if you're going to say daft things like that.”

 

“You know what this moment is missing?” he asked, unbuttoning the shirt with deft, rapid fingers. He shrugged it off to reveal her lightly tanned hands against the stark paleness of his chest, her fingers splayed across the skin there. “The snogging we agreed to.”

 

“That was supposed to be done _in_ the paj--” He leaned forward, cutting her off, and she smiled into the kiss a bit. He stepped forward, and she echoed the movement, moving backwards until she felt the bed come up against the backs of her knees. She sat, slowly so as to avoid breaking the kiss, and he hungrily pursued her, pushing her back onto the bedspread. Her knees pressed in around his thighs, and he urged her back and further up the bed, kissing her between the moments they spent shuffling fully onto it.

 

There was a tremendous sense of urgency to the kissing. She realized it had been a little while since they'd last had sex – a few weeks, even. He'd never pushed for it, though, and she'd almost started to wonder if he was trying to wait for the wedding, or something.

 

Which wouldn't make any _sense_ , but Draco Malfoy and sense didn't always go well together.

 

Instead, she was pretty sure that he'd just been playing it safe, not wanting to commit to anything she hadn't initiated. She was torn between amused frustration at the notion – she was certainly not willing to be the instigator behind 100% of their bedroom activities – and something like contented relief that he was so willing to wait purely on her say-so. Or maybe that rape pod she'd bought from George had really gotten to him worse than she'd thought.

 

He broke her thoughts apart, then, pressing a kiss to her neck and breathing something against the skin there. She couldn't quite make out the words. “Pardon?” she asked, a little breathless herself.

 

Instead of answering, he shifted back up to kiss her again, pressing his body against hers.

 

If she'd ever questioned whether or not Draco found her properly attractive, there was _plenty_ of indication pressing into her hip. “Maybe we skip the bath,” she whispered, pulling her knees up to press her thighs against his hips.

 

“Bath is for after,” he assured her, reaching down to undo the button on her pants. He groaned when he unzipped it and realized he'd have to get off of her in order to get the things fully of. “I _hate_ these things.”

 

“You're a toddler.” She wriggled her hips, pushing them down them. He sat up to help yank them off, although in his haste, he damn near yanked her right with them. Hermione squeaked in surprise as she felt herself get yanked half a foot down the bed, straight into his knees. “ _Easy_ , Draco.”

 

“ _Nothing_ about you is easy,” he muttered, finally getting them off and tossing them off the bed. Getting off her shirt was an easier affair, thankfully, and he was very quickly putting his mouth _everywhere_ on whatever newly-exposed skin there was. Hermione arched her back up, reaching beneath herself to undo her bra, and he quickly grabbed at it and flung it aside, like the rest. He pulled her nipple into his mouth and sucked, earning a gasp.

 

She began wriggling out of her knickers. “At least cast a silencing charm,” she hissed.

 

“Then how will everyone know what a _stallion_ I am?”

 

“ _Draco_.”

 

He chuckled against the fleshy mound of her breast, and grabbed his wand from the bedspread, where he'd abandoned it earlier. Casting a quick charm, he then tossed it aside to help her out of her underwear. Then, he sat back to survey her, his eyes looking noticeably darker in the shadows of his room.

 

She started to redden, but just raised an eyebrow at him. She refused to be embarrassed about her body. It was just a body, for God's sake.

 

He shifted backwards, leaning down to press a kiss to her hip. She tried to close her legs, but they stopped at his ribs. “No,” she murmured, reaching down to pull him up. At his questioning look, she rolled her eyes. “I just spent two hours dancing. I'm all sweaty.”

 

Draco huffed an incredulous laugh. “I don't care.”

 

“You don't _know_ that you don't care, yet.”

 

“Hermione,” he said, firmly, and she looked into his face. He held her gaze for a second, and enunciated, “I don't care. I promise you.” He leaned down to kiss her knee, still holding her gaze, assessing her and how receptive she was. When she inhaled, chewing her lip, he took that as a go-ahead and kissed a little further down.

 

Despite how sure she was that he'd change his mind once down there, she could only reflect as she lay _screaming_ on his bed with her thighs pressed into his ears and her hands fisted in his hair: Either he really _doesn't_ care, or he's just too stubborn to go back on his proclamation.

 

She supposed she didn't mind, either way.

 


	41. Pretty & Beautiful

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-One: Pretty & Beautiful**

 

…

 

All their clothes were on the floor and she was basking in the contented afterglow of her orgasm. She didn't even make fussy noises when he pressed against her, wrapping an arm around her middle. “It is unnatural, how warm you are,” she murmured. She felt his lips press against her shoulder. “You should go to St. Mungos.”

 

“I am a perfectly normal temperature. You're just frigid. Everyone at school said so.”

 

Hermione made a soft, indignant noise, and lazily reached over to swat him. She missed on the first try, and sighed a bit in annoyance when she had to reach even further to land the slap against his side.

 

He chuckled into her ear. “Good retort. Is this all anyone had to do, to get you to shut up? All these years and no one cracked the code. Not even the Weasel.”

 

“The question _now_ is what can be done to shut _you_ up.”

 

His teeth closed gently on the lobe of her ear, and she sucked in a breath, stiffening a bit as arousal shot through her. “Nothing,” he said, in a smug tone. “Nothing can keep a Malfoy down and nothing can shut him up. You're going to have a lot of fun with those kids of mine,” he added. “We've got the gift of gab, as they say.”

 

“ _I'd_ say it's more like a curse,” she scoffed. “Except this one ruins the lives of everyone _else_.”

 

Draco lifted his arm to move his hand to her hip, patting it. “As much as lying here chatting your ears off is very fun, especially knowing that you're perfectly helpless against it, right now – we should probably get in the bath. Dinner's in an hour.”

 

She groaned, knowing he was right and _hating_ it. “I don't know how I let you talk me into doing this pre-dinner. We're no better than cavemen.”

 

“Talk you into it,” he repeated in a mutter. “As though anyone on this stupidly massive planet could talk you into doing anything you'd already decided _not_ to. I think you were _born_ ornery. Come on.” He patted her hip again, urging her up as she groaned some more.

 

Finally, though, she slid her legs off the bed and stretched a bit, padding across the room. “The water better still be hot--” Hermione began, turning to glance at him. She was surprised to see that he was still sitting on the bed, just watching her. His eyes lifted from their lazy perusal of her body to her face as she turned, and she turned her back towards him again, glaring at him over her shoulder. “ _What_ are you doing, you dumb prat?”

 

“You're _really_ going to be shy, now?” he demanded, starting to laugh. “And I'm looking.”

 

“Why!” she huffed, turning to head into the bathroom. The black and red marble was truly preposterous. She felt the water and was relieved to see it was still hot. Probably a feature of the house. Rich people probably never understood that in real life, water went cold when it was just left standing.

 

His voice carried in after her. “Because I like the _view_. I should say that's obvious. I mean, I get to see you naked often enough, which is nice,” he continued, joining her in the bathroom. _“Very_ nice. But I never get to see you naked and _in motion_. It's like finally seeing the backstage of a theater. Exhilarating. And kind of weird.” She shot him a narrow look, and he added, “In a _good_ way.”

 

Hermione sighed, shooting him a pitying look. “I knew it was only a matter of time. You've finally gone absolutely mad, haven't you? I thought I'd at _least_ get a few good years out of you, first.”

 

He lifted an eyebrow. “You know, your arse jiggles when you walk.”

 

That earned him an _immediate_ punch to the shoulder, and he flinched away from her, gasping in pain. “It does not!”

 

“That's a _Ginny_ punch!” he accused, rubbing his shoulder and gritting his teeth. “ _Merlin_. It's like she taught you how to lead with your pointiest knuckles. What _is_ that? She _taught_ you that, admit it!”

 

“You know what else she taught me?” Hermione asked, leaning against the tub. It was high, coming nearly to her hips, and sitting on the edge was easy. At his questioning, still-pained look, she launched another punch in _exactly_ the same spot – the very second he'd finally dropped his hand. He exclaimed and shied away from her, again, clutching at his shoulder. “She calls that 'the double-tap,'” she said, with wicked glee.

 

“I've got a few choice things to _call her_ , when I next see her,” he ground out, shooting her a baleful glare.

 

Chuckling, Hermione pivoted from where she was sitting, dipping her feet into the water. She eased in, since the water was _very_ hot, and slid into the tub. She was a little startled when she finally was fully seated and the water was at her armpits. “Do you still see her, without me?” she asked, curiously.

 

Draco climbed in beside her. The tub was so ridiculously large, there was plenty of room for them both to sit and not even touch each other, if they were careful. He wasn't. His leg ended up flush against hers. “I saw her last Tuesday.”

 

Her eyes narrowed a bit. “I don't know if I like the idea of you two spending time together unchaperoned. That's just asking for trouble.”

 

“Why, because she told me about the time you kissed MacLaggen and you could feel with your tongue that he hadn't brushed his teeth in the last ten years?” he asked, snickering a bit. Yes, he'd been plying Ginny for information, and it was _shockingly_ easy to do so, too.

 

Hermione gaped at him. “She _what_?” she screeched.

 

He stopped laughing immediately. “Oh-- Damn it, was that the thing she asked me not to tell you that she told me?” he murmured. “Crap. She's going to dislocate my shoulder.”

 

“I can't believe you're sitting in a tub with a _furious woman_ and you're worrying that someone who's not even here is going to _maybe_ hurt you later,” she huffed. “I'm formidable, too! I gave you that punch a second ago,” she reminded him. “Not to mention that slap in third year. That was _not_ taught to me by Ginny.”

 

Draco thought for a moment. “What would you do, if I told you I got an erection in that moment?”

 

She began grappling with him, trying to push his head under the water, and he laughed as he scooted away from her. When she tried to follow him, he pulled her between his legs, her knees sliding along the smooth marble. She put up a grumpy, mostly-token resistance when he gathered her up into his arms, kissing her temple. “You're absolutely insufferable,” she complained, when she'd finally given up her token resistance and was curled up against his chest.

 

“You know what's absolutely awful? I think you _like_ how annoying I am. Turn, put your back to me. We don't have a lot of time left.”

 

“Are you really going to wash my hair?” she asked, starting to laugh, herself. But she dutifully turned, resting her arms on his bent knees. She ran her fingers down one of his shins, a little fascinated by the hair there. In the water, it felt fuzzy, and a lot less coarse.

 

Instead of answering, he tapped her shoulder, and she dutifully leaned back to put her scalp in the water. She looked up at him, expecting his eyes to be on hers (or her breasts), but he was actually intently focused on getting every strand of her hair perfectly wet. His fingers massaged the water up into her scalp, and he tilted her head back a little further to catch her bangs. Hermione sobered a bit as she watched his face.

 

He looked rather _intense_. She wondered if this was the expression he wore when he was doing his potions, or his alchemical experiments. He looked focused and-- something else. Something she couldn't immediately identify.

 

Draco's eyes flicked up to hers when he'd finished, and he grinned. His hands cupped the back of her scalp, his thumbs brushing over the shell of her ears. Slowly, she raised her head back up, feeling suddenly and profoundly vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that she was naked.

 

“You know,” he murmured, his voice soft. “It's hard to see just how pretty you are, with all that hair. It's almost like it becomes your defining trait. I mean, I've always known you were _pretty_ , but sometimes it really catches me by surprise.”

 

“ _You've_ always known _I_ was pretty?” Her voice was a little breathy, half a chuckle.

 

“Hey, I thought you were annoying and awful for who you were on the _inside_ , not the outside,” he laughed. “After you went and got your teeth fixed, I remember being annoyed that you'd taken away one of the few things I could use as a weapon to try and knock you down a peg or three. I guess it was cruel in a way only kids can be. Even then, I understood that the easiest way to kick a girl in the heart was to tell her she was ugly.”

 

“Precocious little bastard, were you?”

 

“Well, I'm eating my words now, aren't I?” he pointed out, grabbing a vial. It looked like liquid dish soap, and she quite honestly found it very suspect. However, before she could ask what it was, he was smoothing it into his hands and then massaging it into her scalp.

 

Hermione hummed a bit. “Well, it's not like you're wrong. I'm not a model, after all,” she muttered, dryly. “Nor the very embodiment of _physical perfection_ like your mother. She was brewed in a cauldron, wasn't she? She's not real.”

 

“This may seem strange,” Draco muttered. “But I had _very_ little desire to be romantically affiliated with anyone that looked like _my mother_.”

 

She laughed, lifting her hand to wipe the lather threatening to slide down her forehead. “Still. You know there's going to be chatter when we stand next to each other and get our picture taken. 'Malfoy Family Genetics Going Downhill,'” she declared, theatrically.

 

“Did you, or did you not, hear me just say that you are actually very pretty?”

 

“It's a far cry from _beautiful_ , though,” she said, thoughtfully. “Not that it bothers me, really.” Of course, every little girl desired to be beautiful, but when they became women, they realized that stupid stuff like that couldn't be held against a universal measuring stick. And there were tons of other things that mattered.

 

Draco snorted. “You're beautiful, too.”

 

“Now you're just saying nonsense,” she accused, laughing again. “Which am I, very pretty, or beautiful?”

 

“You're both,” he said, implacably. “ _Pretty_ is something you would use to describe a vase, or a flower. It's just a way to ascribe attractiveness to a _thing_. Your face is pretty. You have a pretty face,” he droned, by way of example. “Your eyelashes are thick and dark, your eyes are a lovely little _Rum & Coke_ brown, your nose is thin and turns up a little at the end, and your lips are full and very pink and very, very kissable. You're pretty.”

 

Stunned into silence, she drew her knees up a little higher against her chest as he massaged the shampoo carefully down the length of her hair. “Isn't beautiful just some higher version of that?” she wondered, softly.

 

“No, beauty is personal,” he said, firmly. “A model is pretty. She's not beautiful if she doesn't mean anything to me. She _can't_ be.”

 

Hermione swallowed, suddenly finding it a little hard to breathe.

 

She was about to ask what exactly he meant by that – of course she could guess, she could _always_ guess, but guessing was _so uncertain_ and would it _kill him to just say it?_ – but before she could, he was tapping her shoulder again. “Rinse.”

 

Leaning back, she watched his face as he carefully ran his fingers through her hair, rinsing all the suds out of it. She recognized that other emotion, now. He looked intense, focused, and _content_.

 

He was _happy_ to be there, washing her hair.

 

She inhaled deeply, trying to process it, and the movement drew his eyes, and she saw a smirk slide onto his face as he ogled her chest. Hermione rolled her eyes, finding it absolutely _amazing_ that he was so readily able to ruin a moment. “Ridiculous,” she declared. “Are you staring at my chest?”

 

“It's a _nice_ chest. It's my favorite one, besides mine,” he said, his smirk widening into a grin. She elbowed his thigh. “Ow!”

 

In retaliation, he pulled her hair, and she squealed and rose out of the water, grabbing his ankles and _yanking_. He yelped as he disappeared underwater, and soon he was back up again, spluttering, his hair plastered all over his forehead. As soon as he wiped at his face and started to open his eyes, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was smooth, and sweet, like butterbeer.

 

He relaxed immediately, leaning back against the wall of the tub as he wrapped his arms around her back, his smile almost widening too far to maintain the kiss.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It was a wonder they got down to dinner in time, given how much of it they'd wasted horsing around in his tub. They'd also wasted a fair bit of time arguing over how best to dry her hair in the scant twenty minutes they had before they were required to be downstairs. Although she'd warned him against charming it dry, he'd refused to listen, and she'd ended up with a poofy, poodle-like mess. It had taken three castings of Narcissa's charm and both of them wrestling it into a rough chignon to get her looking presentable again.

 

Draco had nearly given up about four or five times, when curls kept springing out of the knot at the nape of her neck, declaring her hair 'maddening beyond all belief.' To which she'd retorted, 'Oh, please, tell me something I _don't_ know!'

 

In the end, though, they'd managed to get it all wrestled into the knot and (mostly) tamed.

 

He'd picked out her dress. It had looked _far_ too ostentatious for a simple dinner with his family, but after he pointed out that nothing was 'ostentatious' when his mother was involved, she'd finally agreed and just put it on. It was a lilac affair – pastels being Narcissa's only exception to the 'no cool colors' rule of dressing Hermione up – that required an extra pair of hands to even put on, as it was done up the back with a long series of buttons.

 

Then she'd watched with no small amount of fascination as he got dressed, in clothes that seemed to be – _impossibly_ – more complicated than hers.

 

Finally, though, they were heading down to the dining room, laughing and prodding at each other. Narcissa, Lucius, and Theo were all present, which probably meant that they _were_ a minute or two late, but Narcissa didn't seem to mind the tardiness at all.

 

Of course, Lucius and Theo stood when they entered, and Hermione bit back a sigh. Theo caught her brief look of exasperation, and mouthed, _Five months_.

 

She mouthed back, _Plenty_! But she let Draco pull out her chair for her without comment.

 

Once they were all seated, the first course of dinner appeared. The first few moments of that course was spent discussing the course – _oh, isn't this nice, from Provence, you say?_ \-- and then the mood seemed to shift once the polite murmurings were out of the way, and Lucius fixed them both with a speculative look.

 

“So, how have you been occupying the past few hours?” he asked, in a perfectly innocent tone.

 

Hermione's gaze jerked up, and she blurted out, “Intellectual pursuits.” Draco shot her an incredulous look, and she just shrugged helplessly. She had to say _something_ before he went and said something stupid, after all.

 

“Anatomy?” Lucius drawled. Narcissa jerked slightly, and Lucius winced, shooting his wife an amused glance from the corner of his eye.

 

She realized she'd just seen Narcissa Malfoy kick her husband under the table, and that realization killed the tension in her spine as she stifled a soft laugh into the back of her hand. Feeling emboldened, she mimicked Lucius' drawl: “You don't find anatomy a worthwhile pursuit, Lucius?”

 

She watched Theo's eyes flick up to the head of the table, eager to see where _that_ line of conversation would go.

 

Lucius' eyes narrowed just a hint, recognizing the challenge for what it was. “Did you learn anything new or interesting?” he inquired, in that same polite tone, like they were discussing a scientific thesis.

 

“Oh, yes, quite a few things,” Hermione assured him, taking a sip of her wine. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Draco shooting her a sharp look.

 

“What, pray tell, would those things be?” his father wondered.

 

She shrugged. “I don't know if I'll have sufficient time to explain it all, to you. And I don't think I have a simple enough vocabulary, either.”

 

His eyes narrowed fantastically. “You think I might require a _simple_ vocabulary for that subject?”

 

“Well, unless you'd like me to draw diagrams on the wall,” she murmured, taking another deep sip of her wine as Theo suddenly had a suspicious coughing fit across the table. Even Draco had turned his face down to his plate, pressing his lips together.

 

Narcissa sighed. “And here, I thought, oh, wouldn't it be delightful to have another female presence at the table,” she said, wistfully.

 

“He started it,” Hermione defended.

 

“I made a polite inquiry as to your _stay_ in my _home,_ ” Lucius disagreed.

 

She set her wine glass down. “You _know_ what you did.”

 

He looked to his wife, indicating Hermione with a sweep of his hand. “Was that inquiry not polite and sincere, Narcissa?” he asked, eyebrows raising incredulously.

 

Narcissa swallowed her bite of food and reached for her own wine glass. “I will have no part of this.”

 

“Draco?” Lucius said, realizing he would have no back-up from his wife.

 

Draco glanced at Hermione. She slowly raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes narrowing just a smidgen as she silently dared him to take his father's side. Looking back up at his father, he shook his head minutely, eyes widening a bit. “I don't remember _any_ of what happened in the last three minutes,” he announced.

 

The Malfoy patriarch glared at his son, who was studying his plate intently, and then transferred his glare to his son's fiancee. Hermione smiled winningly and raised her glass in a silent _cheers_.

 

“Just the battle,” Lucius reminded her, but he was sporting enough to lift his own glass in return.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Although Draco had asked her to stay that night – in her bedroom suite, of course, though she suspected he'd end up crossing the playroom sooner or later to make her bed unfathomably hot – she'd declined. He'd settled for a lingering kiss by the Floo in the library before she headed home.

 

The next day – Saturday – she found herself at Harry's, as she always seemed to on the weekends.

 

“Hullo,” she greeted Ginny, who was trying to put James' shoes on him. The boy was screaming with laughter as he kicked his feet, and one of the shoes flew into his mother's face. Hermione bit down on her instinctive bark of laughter. “Having some trouble, there?”

 

“Tell me, is it child abuse to put your kid in a full-body bind?” Ginny grumbled, grabbing the shoe from where it had landed.

 

“Probably. Where's Harry, shouldn't he be helping you?”

 

Ginny decided on the 'divide-and-conquer' method, and focused on getting the one shoe tied, keeping the other wedged between her thighs. “One of his at-large suspects was spotted trying to cross into France, so he had to grab a team and head over to nab him before he made it over,” she sighed. “And the boys are driving me absolutely mad, so my _new_ plan for the day was to take them out and tucker them out somewhere.”

 

Hermione considered the screaming James for a moment. “Coram's Fields?” she suggested. “If we walked, it would probably take thirty to forty minutes. You'll want the double-stroller on the way back, though.”

 

“Sounds good,” she agreed, pinning James' other foot to wedge his second shoe on. “Can you get it out of the back closet?”

 

Leaving Ginny to James' kicking and screaming, Hermione headed into the back hallway beneath the stairs, wondering where Albus was. He was probably playing quietly somewhere. Whereas James clearly got his temperament from the Weasley side of the family, Albus Severus was pure 'Harry Potter.' Maybe that was why she'd long ago secretly elected him as her favorite.

 

She had to check a couple closets before she found the stroller with the two seats; a front-facing one for James, who always had to see what was going on, and a back-facing one for Albus, who seemed content if he had _someone_ to look at.

 

Dragging it out front, she arrived back into the living room in time to see Ginny sigh with exhausted triumph, sitting back as James waved his shoed feet in the air. She looked up at Hermione, and pointed at her. “Tag, you're it,” she declared. “I'm going to get Albus' shoes on. Keep this gremlin out of trouble. Also, can you drop some snacks in that thing?” she added, gesturing at the little holding basket between the two stroller seats. With that, she headed upstairs.

 

James pushed to his feet, and before he could do _anything_ , Hermione said, “James, did you want to pick out some snacks for today?”

 

Although he'd been sucking in a breath to do something – probably scream – he froze and eyed her greedily. “I pick?” he asked, brightening. She nodded, and headed into the kitchen, hearing his little shoes thudding after her. “I want gummies!”

 

“Where are those at?” she asked, although she knew. He ran into the pantry to find them as she quickly stuffed some baby carrots into a baggy and tossed them into the basket.

 

When he returned with the gummy candy, she put some of them into a baggy of their own – not very much – and asked, “What else?” As he ran off to find another undoubtedly sweet treat, she hastily grabbed some crackers and some grapes, keeping an eye on James' back as he rooted around the sweets selection of the pantry. The grapes went into a baggy and the crackers stayed in their original packaging.

 

He returned with some biscuits, and she smiled. “ _Very_ good choice!” she commended, and he beamed. She put two in a baggy. “What about drinks? Did you want to bring juice?”

 

“Chocolate milk!” he commanded.

 

She winced a bit. “I don't know if we can do chocolate milk. It's rather warm out, and the milk will get hot,” she explained. Not that she couldn't put a stasis charm on it or cool it down, but the boy didn't _need_ chocolate milk. “What about apple juice? That's your favorite, isn't it?” She opened the fridge to grab some of the boxes of juice there, and froze when he yelped in outrage.

 

“No! Other one,” he said, huffily, pointing at the boxes that were the _same brand_ but had been put out on a special promotion and displayed a cartoon tiger. “Those the good ones,” he added.

 

Hermione refrained from mentioning they were the same product and grabbed four tiger ones, putting them in the basket. She also filled a couple of water bottles and tossed an orange in there. “You're a wonderful little helper, James. Thank you. Do you know where we're going today?”

 

“Park?” he guessed, looking at the stroller.

 

She nodded. “But a bigger one than the one across the street. It's a fun park, with _lots_ of other kids there.” He brightened, a smile spreading across his chubby little face. “And they'll all be playing games and all that. Are you excited?”

 

He nodded vigorously, following her closely as she wheeled the stroller out towards the door. In terms of his godparents, Ron was undeniably James' favorite – the man endured the rough-housing and screaming without even batting an eye, and worse yet always seemed to _encourage_ it – but Hermione had picked up a few tricks when it came to dealing with him. She wasn't the rough-housing sort, but she knew how to keep in James' good graces. Even little hellions enjoyed some of the softer side of life, like bedtime stories and snack-selecting.

 

Ginny came down the stairs about when Hermione made it to the door with James, Albus nestled in her arms. The toddler looked sleepy and content, like he'd just woken up.

 

“Was he still sleeping?” she asked, surprised.

 

The redhead shook her head, laughing a bit. “No, I got him up for breakfast and everything, then he said he wanted to play with his stuffed animals. Half an hour later, I go up and find him face-first in a pile of them, dead asleep.”

 

Hermione smiled fondly at the toddler, who held out a hand to her. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, and then turned to the door, opening it up and hauling the stroller down the front steps. James shot down the steps, giving what sounded like a war-scream, and ran down the street a little. “Wrong way,” Hermione called after him, and he wheeled around and ran straight back towards her.

 

Ginny situated Albus into his little chair, and grabbed James by the back of his shirt as he careened past her. He squeaked as he jolted to a stop, and she leaned down to grind out, “You either _walk_ like normal, or I strap you into this thing for the _entire time_.”

 

He quailed a bit under her stare and meekly decided, “Walk.”

 

“Thought so. Hold Aunt 'Mione's hand, okay?”

 

Hermione held her hand out, feeling his tiny one fold into it as they started down the sidewalk. It was slow going with James opting to walk, and she mentally revised the forty-minute trek to an hour. He'd probably be in the stroller within fifteen minutes. Glancing up at Ginny, she asked, “No game today?”

 

She shook her head. “No, but I've one on Tuesday. Isn't that weird? Who has time to go to a game on a Tuesday?”

 

“Your brother. Your husband. Susan,” she listed off, holding up the fingers on her free hand. “The countless other people who have an unhealthy obsession with the game. I bet they'd even leave work early just to go.”

 

“It's at four, so they'd have to. It'll be the first game Harry can't go to, this season,” she added, sounding a bit wistful over it. “It's in Ireland, too. I'll have to Portkey there.”

 

“Eugh,” Hermione commented.

 

“I _know_. I hate Portkeys. I don't think the 'no Apparating across country borders' law should _count_ for Ireland. Did you know they don't have that law between America and Canada? Because it'd be stupid.”

 

“They don't have that law for America and Canada because it's practically unenforceable,” Hermione corrected, raising her eyebrows at her friend. “Do you know how massive that border is? It's nearly ten thousand kilometers. You'd need at least five thousand Aurors manning the bloody thing.”

 

“Can't they just erect an anti-Apparation shield, like they do here?”

 

Hermione scoffed. “Do you know anyone who can erect a national _ward_ that's ten thousand kilometers long? Besides, the ones here have been in place for centuries, and America's barely been in existence for that long. Europe's magical borders were erected by strong individuals, and are maintained by people that didn't even put them up to begin with. That's very old magic. You don't see that kind much, these days.”

 

“Well, at least it makes immigrating to America easy,” she said, in a dry tone. “I read in the _Prophet_ that there are a pack of American wizards over there who are making _buckets_ of it by illegally bringing over Mexican Muggles with magic. The American Ministry is going absolutely bonkers trying to find them.”

 

Hermione nodded. She vaguely remembered reading that, too, a few weeks prior. But then, things over there always seemed like a mess. “It's the Magical Congress of the United States of America, actually, not 'Ministry,'” she corrected, absently, ignoring the way Ginny rolled her eyes. “And I'm not surprised, really. America's so massive, and they've only the _one_ governing body, all the way in the corner of the country, about as far away from the Mexico border as it's _possible_ to be. And I've heard they have as much staff as our own Ministry. How could they possibly keep things under control?”

 

Ginny grinned, bouncing her eyebrows. “That's the point, according to some people I know who've moved over there. A lot more freedom. They said it's almost ridiculously easy to get away with crimes, as they only really send the Aurors out to deal with murder and the like.”

 

“How awful, to live like that,” Hermione murmured. She wasn't sure how true that was, but it stood to reason, really.

 

James tugged on her hand, and when she glanced down, he said, “Gotta go loo!”

 

“What? Already?” she asked. He nodded, and she said, “We've only _just left_ , James. Why didn't you go at home?”

 

He shot her a puppy-eyed look. “I didn't hafta,” he whined, gently.

 

Ginny heaved a heavy sigh, stopping and rotating the stroller. “Turning around,” she declared, and started back towards the house. Luckily, they'd only made it about four minutes down the street.

 

Fifteen minutes later, they were leaving _again_ , this time with James' bladder mercifully empty.

 


	42. Moon Frogs

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Two: Moon Frogs**

 

…

 

By the time they'd carted the boys home about four hours later, James had given up on trying to walk and was sleeping like the dead in his stroller. Hermione had taken over pushing, idly making sure Albus didn't tip his juice box all over himself as she chatted with Ginny. “You know, soon, that one will be doing accidental magic,” she said, nodding her chin at the front-facing stroller seat. “ _Especially_ given his temperament. What are you going to do if he suddenly explodes a swing-set, or something?”

 

Ginny sighed. “I don't know. I suppose act shocked and then run home. You know, Teddy's started up. He wanted some jam for his toast, and 'Dromeda told him to wait a moment, and the next thing she knew, the entire jar had fallen on the floor. Shattered all over the place.”

 

She grimaced in sympathy. “What did Teddy do?”

 

“Started crying,” Ginny giggled. “Just stared at the jam and then burst into tears, according to her.”

 

“Aww,” Hermione cooed. “That poor thing. I guess it's always a shock when it happens. I remember when I was younger, I was at the bookstore and I made the entire top shelf that I couldn't reach tumble onto the floor. Actually, everyone, including my mom and myself, thought it was an earthquake or something.”

 

“Of _course_ it was books. You are _so_ predictable.”

 

“Shut up,” she ordered, grasping the juice box and straightening it as Albus tried to tip it upside down over his face. He laughed, kicking his little feet. “You know, what if you have a third one? Do they _make_ three-seat strollers?”

 

Ginny sobered a bit. “Yeah. Harry's been showing me them in catalogs. In what is probably the _least_ subtle campaign I've ever seen.”

 

Hermione recalled Harry saying the other day that he was holding out for a girl, and grimaced a bit. “You don't want another one?” she asked, softly. She didn't blame Ginny for that. Two was plenty enough, especially when one of them was James. James was like having _four_ children.

 

“No, I do,” she murmured. “But if I have to take another hiatus from the Harpies, I might as well just quit. They've been _so_ patient with me through these two. I can't ask them to keep _not_ replacing me.”

 

“Would you want to wait until you've retired?”

 

“Well that's just it, isn't it? Career Quidditch players go until their mid-thirties. I can't wait until _then_ to have another kid,” she muttered, folding her arms a bit as she walked. She looked troubled, and Hermione realized that she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen that look on Ginny's face – not since the war, certainly. The only thing that rivaled Ginny's stubbornness was her absolute confidence in her future. “My womb will be a drying haystack, not fit to grow anything in.”

 

“That's preposterous. Tons of women have children at that age,” Hermione scoffed. “Look, playing in the Harpies means the world to you. You say you can't ask them to wait for you, again, but I've seen the way you are with those girls. What makes you think they wouldn't happily do it?”

 

“I don't want to _ask them to_ again,” Ginny clarified, pointedly. “When Kalliope got pregnant, they replaced her. When 'Prina got pregnant, _they replaced her_. They're bending the _unspoken rules_ for me.”

 

Hermione huffed, scowling a bit. “Well, I think it's absolutely barbaric to make a woman choose between having a family and doing what she loves. Men take hiatuses from the sport all the time and get welcomed back with open arms. Why _not_ you? Are you sure it wasn't that Kalli and 'Prina didn't _want_ to come back?”

 

“When _men_ take hiatuses from Quidditch, they don't come back with their body absolutely destroyed beyond all recognition,” the redhead reminded her, in a dry tone. “I'm surprised I was able to even get fit again, after Albus, let alone still play professionally.”

 

She sighed, giving Ginny a good look from the corners of her eyes. She hated seeing Ginny uncertain; it was so rare that it gave her the _worst_ feeling of dread. For a moment, they just walked in silence, Albus making bubbly noises as he sipped at his juice. After a moment, Ginny dipped down to fetch the crackers from the little basket and offered him one. He grasped it, and put it in his mouth, but didn't quite get around to biting down. He succeeded in making half of the cracker thoroughly soggy before returning to his juice, leaving the snack on his belly.

 

Hermione broke the silence first. “Alright. Let's say you did decide to quit the Harpies,” she said, softly. “What would you do, instead?”

 

“I dunno,” Ginny admitted, quietly. “Isn't that sad? So much of what I am is in that stupid sport. If I didn't have this spot on the team, I have no idea what else I'd be doing. To be honest, I didn't think I'd have to worry about that for another ten years.”

 

“There are other Quidditch-related jobs,” she pointed out.

 

Ginny shrugged, shooting her a wan smile. “You're lucky, you know. I don't think you'd _ever_ find yourself feeling purposeless. If you didn't have a crusade, you'd just go and make another one.”

 

She huffed a wry laugh. “Just because I'm good at filling my time doesn't mean I don't feel occasionally purposeless,” she whispered. “But that's why I have you lot. To give me a good kick whenever I feel like sitting around feeling sorry for myself. Although sometimes I'm worried you're getting a little _too good_ at the kicking part.”

 

Grinning, Ginny bumped shoulders with her. “Well, you're a hard arse to kick.”

 

Hermione laughed, and then sobered a bit as something occurred to her. “You know-- isn't that Quidditch correspondent at the _Prophet_ going to retire next year? You always liked writing, before you became so sporty. Do you think you could do it for a living?”

 

She made a bit of a face, not sure how to take the suggestion. “I haven't written a _word_ since school,” she said, doubtfully.

 

“Well, the good news is, writing is something you can do when you're bedridden and screaming for ice cream and goldfish.” Chocolate ice cream with goldfish crackers had been pregnant Ginny's snack-of-choice, much to the consternation of her friends. “And it's about Quidditch. You know, I only know about that because Ron told me about the bloke planning to resign. He was thinking about trying out for the job, but Ron hasn't strung a coherent sentence together on paper since _I_ edited his essays back at Hogwarts.”

 

“Firstly, I would like to remind you all that chocolate ice cream with goldfish is wonderful,” Ginny said, firmly. “And I still enjoy it while I'm un-pregnant.” Ignoring Hermione's gagging noise, she continued: “Also... I'll think about it.”

 

Hermione nodded, letting the conversation drop as Ginny started chatting about some of the current Quidditch gossip. She couldn't follow the names Ginny was dropping worth a damn, but the stories were somewhat exciting either way; there was a _lot_ of drama in professional Quidditch. Teams were always pranking each other, players would have life-long rivals with each other and would constantly try and steal each other's spouses, and a whole bunch of other sordid nonsense that would have been perfect for a daytime television soap opera.

 

Albus had fallen asleep by the time they reached Grimmauld Place. Hermione flicked the soggy cracker into the bushes and lifted him up out of the stroller as Ginny hauled a sleepy, whiny James into her own arms.

 

Harry was home when they opened the door, Hermione dragging the stroller with her free hand and Albus clutched against her shoulder. He was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at a dreamy blonde that Hermione hadn't seen in _far_ too long. “Luna!” she whisper-screamed, pulling the stroller fully into the house so she could close the door. “Oh my God, you're here! When did you get in?”

 

“I picked her up at the Ministry,” Harry said, shooting Hermione a grin. He jumped up to take Albus from her, and Hermione swooped in on Luna as the woman stood, giving her a firm hug. “Of course, finding her was easy.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at Luna's clothing, which was what looked like a _man's_ Qing-dynasty Chinese suit.

 

Hermione stepped back from the hug to survey the outfit. “Is this what they're wearing over in Jixi?” she asked, a little incredulous. She wondered if the Chinese magical community was as stuck in the past as the British one. She'd never been, and a part of her was insanely jealous that Luna was spending a year overseas in such a vibrant community.

  
Even if it _was_ to search for a colony of Moon Frogs.

 

“No,” Luna said, a bit dreamily. “I just rather liked the look of it. And it gives me proper mobility to go Moon Frog-hunting. You have to be quick to catch those.”

 

“Naturally,” Ginny agreed. The sarcasm was light, though, tempered by warm amusement. She shifted James in her arms to give Luna a one-armed hug. “Have you gotten close to finding them?”

 

“I think I am getting close. Anyways, I'm glad your wedding is soon, Hermione,” she added. “I've just gotten notice of my own engagement. I hope it's someone nice.” Realizing that Luna was a half-blood, Hermione found herself desperately praying she wouldn't be paired up with a Death Eater; the Lovegoods were not, as a whole, on great terms with them.

 

“When do you hear?” Ginny asked, frowning. Apparently her thoughts had ran along the same lines as Hermione's.

 

“Monday,” Luna said, not looking worried in the slightest. “Oh, also, I got your owl, Hermione, that I'm not going to be a bridesmaid anymore. You needn't have worried about hurting my feelings. I'll feel much less bad about studying the giant squid during the reception, now.”

 

Chuckling a bit, Hermione shrugged. “Well, I'm glad, but please don't anger it and make it come out, or anything.”

 

“Oh, I don't think it gets angry,” Luna assured her.

 

“That's reassuring,” Harry murmured, rolling his eyes just a bit as he started up the stairs with Albus. “I'm going to lay him down, since he's already napping.”

 

Ginny nodded and followed him up with James, quipping, “You know, I can't help but notice that when you saw two girls holding a boy each, you went for the one that only weighs two stone...”

 

Luna moved to the stove, making another mug of tea for Hermione. “Are you excited about your wedding?” she asked, lightly. “Maybe you can re-do the interior of their dungeon. It was a bit drafty down there.” Hermione paused in answering, but detected absolutely no sarcasm – Luna was not a sarcastic person. She just _genuinely felt_ that in her months of being interned in the Manor's dungeon, the biggest problem was that it was _a little cold_.

 

She really was something else. “What would you like to see in there?” she wondered. “Some pillows?”

 

“And blankets. And a fireplace,” Luna agreed. “Unless they've gone back to holding illegal artifacts in there, then I suppose pillows and blankets might be a little out of place. I don't suppose illegal artifacts are very welcoming.”

 

“Maybe we could move those upstairs.”

 

She set the tea in front of Hermione and sat. “Or the future prisoners. Although that may not instill the appropriate sense of dread or foreboding,” she murmured, thoughtfully.

 

“Well, with any luck, they won't be imprisoning anyone any time soon,” Hermione muttered.

 

Luna nodded. “I've heard that they're trying to turn over a new leaf. I think that's a great idea,” she said, brightly. She pushed the sugar across the table to Hermione, who spooned in a little, and then offered her a lemon as well. Hermione shot her a smile as she picked it up. Despite rarely being around these days, Luna always effortlessly remembered little things about her friends, like how they best liked their tea. The dreamy blonde continued: “They've got quite a lot of ground to make up, after all, if they want to keep a Nargle infestation at bay. Nargles are quite attracted to ill intent. I bet they're all over the Manor grounds. I should like to look for them, sometime.”

 

“As soon as we're married, you can come and investigate for Nargles all you want,” Hermione promised, making a mental note to ensure that Lucius was in the building when it happened. Imagining his exasperation was just delicious.

 

Luna brightened a bit. “Great,” she said, enthusiastically. “If you could all go into the same room and think bad thoughts for a few minutes every day leading up to my investigation, I bet you could draw them all there.”

 

She supposed the _true_ test of the existence of Nargles, then, was whether or not Luna could find the room they all decided to think bad thoughts in. “Sure,” she said, although she doubted any of the Malfoys would agree to doing something so patently idiotic. “What are you going to do if you find any? Capture them?”

 

Her blue-grey eyes widened a bit. “No! I'd document them. I'd hate to disturb their den, how awful.”

 

Oh. Well, of course.

 

Harry and Ginny re-entered the kitchen, then, and Hermione was a little grateful for the distraction. She loved Luna, but pretending to agree in the existence of nonsense creatures always wore her a little thin. She'd _long_ since given up trying to argue with Luna about any of them, since Luna's pure belief in the things couldn't be wavered by anything, _especially_ logic. Also, Hermione had been rather forcefully shut up about the matter when Luna discovered an _actual_ infestation of Gulping Plimpies in South Africa, making her the first person to discover an entirely brand new magical species in years.

 

She didn't have to believe in any of the other creatures Luna nattered on about, but she could no longer truly believe the girl daft, either.

 

“Luna, where are you staying?” Harry asked, as Ginny started puttering about the kitchen to whip up a quick dinner. “And _please_ do not say that disgusting little inn that you think has a colony of Bluddergumps in it. That place is absolutely vile.”

 

“I'm very close to finding them.”

 

“You're staying here,” Harry decided, firmly. “You're going to get _fleas_ again in that place.”

 

“I'm with Harry,” Ginny said. “You gave James _fleas_ after one night at that place. You're never going back there. Ever. We've got the guest room all set upstairs. Harry, put her bag in it before she decides to go Bluddergump hunting.” She pulled some hamburger meat out of the fridge and a skillet.

 

As Harry headed upstairs with Luna's bag, Hermione stood, approaching the counter. “Want me to chop something? Onions?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as Ginny said the word at the same time.

  
Ginny grinned. “You know me so well.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You know, you can't keep fobbing onions off on everyone because they sting your eyes a little,” she huffed, heading into the pantry to grab two of them. “What are you making, shepherd's pie?”

 

“Yes,” Ginny said, perfectly unapologetic. She waved Luna away when she offered to help, partially out of deference to her 'guest' status and partially because the last time Luna tried to help with the cooking, tomato had ended up plastered all over the ceiling. Instead, Harry rejoined her at the table and asked her about her recent adventures in China as Ginny bossed Hermione about the kitchen.

 

They'd owled Susan and Ron for dinner, by that point, and they ended up in the formal dining room due to lack of space in the kitchen. James spent most of dinner with his hands in his pie, mushing it about on his plate, mostly because his Uncle Ron absolutely died laughing when he did it. He beamed at Ron as he made a mess of his dinner, eagerly lapping up his godfather's approval. Hermione focused on feeding Albus, who got more of his dinner on his chin than in his mouth, while Ginny threatened James in a bellowing voice that sounded _eerily_ like her mother's that if he did not stop _this instant_ , every toy that he'd ever owned was going to be incinerated.

 

Of course, James didn't know what 'incinerated' meant, so he just stared at his mother blankly, lifted his hands, and spread shepherd's pie all over his own face, an act that made the whole table go silent with stunned bemusement.

 

Ginny clapped her hands over her own face, groaning in frustration as even _Harry_ burst out laughing.

 

Grinning at the attention, James hopped out of his chair with another scoop of his dinner in his messy hands and began smearing it all over the wall, earning a collective ' _NO!!!_ ' from his adult audience that rattled the walls. The latter half of dinner was spent chasing him around the house to try and keep mashed potatoes and beef off everything else.

 

By the end of it, Hermione reflected that no one was truly untouched by the massacre; even Ron, who had spent the chase part of the game mostly dying of laughter at a safe distance, had some potato on his ear that he'd failed to notice.

 

She went home that night with a brand new respect for Molly Weasley.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Sunday, she spent at home, trying not to think about the fact that in one week, she would be married. She'd already decided not to do anything differently after the wedding; Draco had suggested honeymooning two months prior, but she'd refused. She didn't feel comfortable treating this whole thing like it was _real_ when it was really just to appease some daft law. And that very much included enjoying a lover's getaway to some warm beach.

 

Since she'd already considered that _decided_ , she was a little surprised come Monday morning, when her morning conversation with Draco suddenly veered in that direction. “I told you, I can't just spirit off to Spain for a week,” she said, firmly. “I have a job.”

 

“A job with vacation days,” Draco reminded her. “Which I _know_ you haven't taken.”

 

“You don't _know_ that,” Hermione huffed, stirring her coffee.

 

“My father's started having weekly lunches with your Department Head,” he informed her, and smirked a bit when he saw her gasp. “I know rather a lot about you, these days. Like, for instance, the fact that you haven't taken a single vacation day in the past three years. The _only_ time off you've taken at all, actually, was that week of sick days you took when you were avoiding me. Do you have any idea how much time you've racked up, by now?”

 

She stirred her coffee a little viciously, the clinking noise carrying around the little coffeeshop. She yanked it out and plonked it onto the saucer, simmering with fury. “I can't believe he just goes and tells your father that kind of information about me. That _must_ be a breach of contract. Confidentiality, or something!”

 

Draco shrugged, and she barreled on: “Also, _why_ is your father suddenly spending so much time with my Department Head? He doesn't care a _bit_ about Magical Creatures.”

 

“Don't be obtuse,” Draco advised her, in a low drawl. Of course, they both knew that Lucius was obviously up to something; it could be as benign as trying to get to know Hermione better in that roundabout way of his (why couldn't he just have a conversation with her, like a _normal person_?), or it could be as severe as determining how easily he could get Hermione fired to ensure that none of her time was spent on anything that wasn't raising little Malfoy sprotlets. “And before you ask, he hasn't let me in on whatever he's planning. He just passes on information he thinks I'd be interested in.”

 

“Why would you be interested in my vacation days?” she demanded.

 

He picked up the pamphlets he'd brought of the various wizarding resorts he'd been trying to get her agree to go to, and reached forward to lightly smack her face with them, in time with his well-enunciated words: “Because. I. Want. To. Go. On. A. Trip. With. You.”

 

She shoved the Barcelona one out of her face irritably, ignoring the bikini-clad woman holding some fruity drink on the front. “I have projects I'm working on.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Like they _can't_ wait,” he muttered, scornfully. “Nothing happening in Magical Creatures is _urgent_ , Hermione.”

 

He seemed to realize this was the wrong thing to say when he looked at her face, and although he paled a bit, he wasn't quite quick enough to retract it before she was responding. “ _Everything_ happening in my department is _urgent_ ,” she grit out, her eyes narrowing. “What about _basic human rights_ isn't urgent?”

 

“Human. _Human_ rights,” he retorted. “You're not working on _human_ rights.”

 

“They deserve the _same rights_ ,” she exclaimed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “You _know_ how important that is to me. How can you say that?”

 

He ground his teeth a bit. “It just slipped out. I know,” he said, trying to placate her. “I know it's important to you. And I know how much you want rights for all those creatures. And I've nothing against that, for the most part.” He left out his feelings about werewolves, not wanting to dredge that argument up just then. “But you're working on _legislation_ , which is something that happens over the course of _years_. When I say it's not urgent, I mean that your work won't suffer an unrecoverable setback by you disappearing for a single week.”

 

“This is really short notice,” she complained. “I'm not sure my boss would even agree. _Without Lucius sticking his stupid nose into it_ ,” she added in a low growl. “I won't have your family intervening on my behalf at my own job. It's embarrassing. I'm perfectly capable of doing what I'm doing without outside assistance.”

 

“You know, your refusal to accept any help is probably why your legislative motions never push through,” Draco pointed out, pressing his lips together as he tried to keep his answering annoyance at bay. “If you let people help you more often, they'd feel more emotionally attached to your projects and would be willing to fight for them _with_ you. Not to mention, having a crowd want to start a movement is the best way to get the Ministry to bow to the changing times.”

 

“That's underhanded,” she muttered.

 

“It's _politics_ ,” he exploded, throwing his hands up in frustration. “When are you _finally_ going to understand that? You work in the _government_. It doesn't matter what you're _trying_ to do, it's all still politics, and politics is _all that matters_ in there.”

 

Hermione glared at him, not appreciating how deftly he was overriding the achievements she'd made while working at the Ministry. Yes, working through the red tape was hard, and yes, she'd pissed off a number of people trying to force her views down everyone's throats. But she hadn't been _completely_ ineffective. She'd passed several ordinances in her time there. “Is this some sort of 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions' talk?” she asked, archly.

 

“The paved road of good intentions doesn't go to hell,” he snapped. “It doesn't go anywhere, actually. It's just a circle, waiting for someone who's willing to actually play the game to come along and lead it somewhere.”

 

She grumbled. “I've done lots of things at that department that I feel like you're ignoring for the sake of your argument.”

 

“Yes, you're very accomplished,” Draco cut in, impatiently. “But with what? The most minor of issues. Where is your equal rights for trolls? Werewolves? Your dearest little pet projects? Going absolutely nowhere, because you're wasting time fighting against several centuries of instilled fear and distrust with just your _good intentions_. Here's a hint, Hermione: It doesn't work.”

 

“That's so jaded,” she said, quietly, her glare intensifying. “I've not given up on my faith in humanity.”

 

Draco scrubbed his hand with his face. “Humanity is a cesspool,” he said, tiredly. “And we'll always draw back to the nearest known safepoint when we're facing the unknown. It was safe to distrust and hate werewolves. And we can only assume it will always be. Everyone's going to be furious if that law of yours ever passes, you know, but you'll never get to _know_ that first-hand if you don't accept some help.”

 

“Are _you_ offering to help?” she asked, incredulously. Draco hated werewolves more than anyone else she personally knew. “You don't believe in werewolf rights.”

 

“I wouldn't be doing it for the _werewolves_ ,” he spat.

 

She fell silent, regarding him across the table, her arms still crossed. She wasn't sure if she was touched by the sentiment, or made all the more frustrated for it. She didn't want werewolf rights to come about because someone with a powerful father liked her. She wanted them to come about because it was _right_ and the people were acknowledging that it was right.

 

Draco swallowed, and distracted himself by taking a sip of his coffee. When he set his mug down, he looked at her, plaintive. “Even if it's not for the right reasons, what can you lose by letting us help?” he asked, softly.

 

“My moral high ground?” she offered, just as quietly.

 

He inhaled deeply, and let it all out in a sigh. “If you go to one of these places with me,” he said, tapping the pamphlets. “For a week, and you leave all your work _here_... I won't make you accompany me to an amusement park until my next birthday.” She could see how much it _pained him_ to make that offer, and recalled that she'd promised a while ago to take him one more time before summer was over.

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Really? Not until next June?”

 

“I promise I won't force you, or try to cajole you or plead with you, or do anything to put you in a situation where you feel compelled to promise to go. This year,” he added.

 

“And no broom rides,” she added.

 

He started to smile when he realized she was seriously considering his bargain. “No. The offer is, as stands. I still retain the right to trick or guilt you into broom rides.”

 

She looked stubborn. “I want no broom rides.”

 

“ _Or_ we could spend the weekend after our wedding going on every roller coaster in the entire country over and over,” he threatened, and she made a face at him, shuddering a bit in revulsion at the thought. He spread the pamphlets across the table so she could look at the covers of all of them. “What do you say?”

 

Heaving a gusty sigh, she slapped her hand down on _Sicily_ and picked it up. “Deal.”

 

Grinning, he took the pamphlet and folded it up, tucking it into his robes as he disappeared the rest of them with a wave of his wand. “Pack before the wedding, because I'm not giving you a chance to, after. Ginny said it's very important to make sure I capitalize on your high-riding emotions the night of the wedding.”

 

Hermione groaned. “Please don't take advice from Ginny about wooing women,” she muttered. “I'm not going to have 'high-riding' emotions because of a wedding.”

 

He shook his head. “No, I'm going to make you cry,” he said.

 

“ _What_.”

 

“She said the wedding's not a success unless the bride bursts into tears because of how emotionally over-saturated she is,” he explained, patiently. “She says it usually happens during the vows, so I'll try and crack you there.”

 

Hermione stared at him. “It's absolutely twisted that you're sitting here, planning on how to best make me _cry_ at my own wedding. Also, it's not going to work. I've never cried at weddings.”

 

He looked supremely confident. “I'll make you cry,” he promised.

 

“You really will not,” she counter-promised. “Unless you do something absolutely stupid that makes me burst into tears of _rage_. I won't discount _that_ possibility.”

 

Draco shook his head, looking so smug she kind of wanted to give him a slap. “No. Tears of joy. I'll get you.”

 

“You've gone mad,” she intoned.

 

“You sent me there,” he shot back, grinning. Their time was up, and she stood, needing to head into work. When he stood with her, he leaned in and shocked her by kissing her, right at the table. They'd kissed in public just once, before, outside this very cafe – but that had been a very different situation. This was almost _casual_.

 

He lingered in it, but kept it chaste and sweet. When he pulled back, she licked her lips, and whispered, “What was that for?”

 

Draco just shrugged, still smiling. “See you tonight.”

 

He gave her a little wave and headed out, leaving her standing by the table with a stunned expression. When she realized everyone was looking at her, she flushed bright red and hustled out.

 


	43. Pre-Wedding Jitters

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Three: Pre-Wedding Jitters**

 

…

 

By Thursday, she was fidgeting restlessly as she stirred her coffee. She already felt over-caffeinated, and she hadn't had a single cup before coming to the shop. Draco watched her fuss with her croissant, his palm cupping against his chin and his mouth. Finally, he asked, in a dispassionate tone, “Something on your mind, Hermione?”

 

“No,” she muttered, dumping in more sugar. She'd forgotten that she'd put some in, already.

 

He reached across to still her hand as she stirred her cup for the fortieth time, the gentle clinking stopping. Slowly, he pulled her hand – and the spoon – out of the cup, and set both by the saucer. “Are you freaking out over the wedding?”

 

“No,” she denied, too promptly for it to ring true. She spoke quickly and decisively, like she was at a board meeting. “It's just a stupid wedding, after all. And a legally mandated one. There's no reason to freak out over it. So I'm not doing that. No.”

 

“How are the vows coming?” he asked, doing his best to stifle his smile.

 

The scowl only appeared for a second before she forced a smile, which ended up looking more like a pained grimace. “Fan _tas_ tic.”

 

“I simply can't wait to hear them,” he said, sipping nonchalantly at his own coffee.

 

Hermione glowered at him. What a _prat_. _Why_ did she like this man, again? Lifting her own mug, she took a generous gulp and made a face – apparently she'd forgotten a _few_ times that she'd already sugared her coffee. She watched Draco wave lazily at the server, who appeared with a fresh cup and took her sickeningly sweet one away. “You watched me dump half the pot of sugar in there,” she complained, sourly. “Why'd you let me drink it?”

 

He shrugged. “I wanted to see your face when you did. And it did _not_ disappoint.” She glared at him, and he smiled. How could he sit there and look so _at ease_ when he was about to get married for the next _ten years_? “Alright, Hermione, which part of the wedding has got you all fussed? Is it the vows? The dance?”

 

“I'm _not_ fussed.”

 

“What an adorably fussy thing to say,” he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It is the vows, isn't it? Did you even write them, yet?”

 

She scowled bitterly, putting sugar in her new coffee – hopefully for the first time – and stirring it in. The truth was, she _had_ written vows. Sort of. She'd half-written them about five hundred times, and always ended up throwing them away. Everything she tried to put to paper was absolute rubbish; either it was trite and generic, or it was _far_ too revealing. Worst of all, she had no idea what his vows were going to be. She didn't want to have a super-personal revealing of her feelings if he was going to have some funny monologue about the time she'd vomited upon hearing she had to marry him.

 

The even _worse_ scenario was that she did a funny monologue and he bared _his_ soul, which would make her look like an absolute arsehole. “Of course I've written them,” she muttered. “And they're amazing, thank you very much.”

 

“Wonderful. I'm very much looking forward to it. So is it the dance?”

 

She bristled a bit, feeling strangely defensive. “ _You_ said I was doing well. Even Felix said it wouldn't make everyone else want to break their legs out of sympathy, which I've come to understand is something of a high compliment, from him.” She was turning her croissant into confetti, picking it apart without eating any.

 

He slid the plate with the battered croissant away from her. “So then _what_?”

 

“I don't know! It's all just-- so--”

 

“Sudden? Permanent? Life-changing?” he supplied, nonchalantly. “Stop me if I've gotten it.”

 

“Yes! All those things. Aren't you the least bit anxious?” she asked, plaintively. “You're going to be _married_ to _me_ for the next _ten years_. With no hope of ever straying,” she added, tapping her ring pointedly. “You're stuck with me. This is it. For ten years. Or two children in, whichever comes first. Which means that after the first child has turned my vagina into a _warzone_ , it's _still_ your only option. Doesn't that freak you out?”

 

“Not particularly,” he said, amused by her little rant. “You know it shrinks back, right?”

 

“ _Of course I know that_ ,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “I'm surprised _you_ do. But not all the way, you know. And I'll have nasty stretch marks.”

 

He squinted a bit, his eyebrows drawing together as he tried desperately to locate the source of her anxiety. “What, the little lines? Who cares?” he asked, shrugging a shoulder.

 

“Oh, you're impossible,” she groaned, sliding down in her chair until the top of it hit the back of her skull. “You're only twenty-four. I don't understand how you're not losing your mind over being shackled to a single person for the next decade.”

 

“I happen to enjoy that person immensely, even if she has the poise of a beached dolphin,” he drawled, and kicked her ankle a bit. “Sit _up_.”

 

She made a miserable noise as she scooted back up in her chair. “Weddings are just so _momentous_. There's a lot of pressure on them to make sure they're beautiful and life-changing. What if I didn't want a beautiful, life-changing wedding? What if it's perfectly mediocre? Then the _Prophet's_ headline will be: 'War Heroine's Wedding Perfectly Forgettable.' Or something wittier. I'm not good at coming up with witty headlines. That's more Ron's forte.” She realized that the more she spoke, the more panicky she was beginning to sound. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat a bit, trying to keep from going shrill.

 

“As usual, you're thinking entirely too hard about this. All that matters is that you and I enjoy ourselves,” he assured her, quietly. “Who cares if anyone else thinks otherwise? The ceremony isn't _for_ them.”

 

“I know,” she sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing circles into her temples. She felt a headache coming on. “I know that you're right. It's just...”

 

“Everything is going to be just fine. And if you make it through the whole thing _without_ dying, you get to go on a fun Sicilian vacation with _me_ , one of the best people to ever exist,” he pointed out, brightening a bit. She stared at him, and he huffed, annoyed. “Well, don't _trip all over yourself_ to agree, or anything.”

 

She snorted, and then a second later, she was laughing. It persisted for a minute before it died down into lazy chuckles, some of the tension leaking out of her. “You're such an idiot,” she said, fondly.

 

He smiled a bit in response, then drained his coffee. “Did you pack, already?”

 

“Of course. By the way, you don't have to spirit me off to Italy in order to shag me,” she pointed out, picking up a piece of her croissant confetti and popping it in her mouth. “We do that already.”

 

“But we could be doing it during the _daytime_ on a _weekday_ , an experience that you have been extremely stingy with.”

 

“I _promise_ that it's the same.”

 

He shook his head, and fell silent for a few seconds as the server refilled his coffee. When she'd left, he answered, “I'm sorry, but I can't just accept your assertion as fact. It needs to be rigorously and thoroughly tested. Empirically,” he added, although he looked uncertain of the word itself and cast her a sharp look, to gauge her reaction to it.

 

She squinted at him. “Where did you learn that? Theo? _Are you talking to Theo about our sex life_?” she demanded.

 

He froze in reaching for the sugar, his eyes locked on her face. “Is-- do I-- am I supposed to _not_ do that?” he finally asked, eyes darting around the little cafe as though an answer would magically appear to his question. When Hermione simply let her jaw drop open, he hesitated. “Oh.”

 

“Draco!”

 

“I didn't know! Don't you talk to your friends about me?” he asked, incredulously.

 

“Not in _detail_.”

 

A thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes at the sugar bowl. “That would explain Ginny's immense interest, then. I thought maybe she just wanted _my_ side,” he murmured, somewhat absently. He made a mental note to watch that sharp little redhead a lot more closely.

 

She sucked in a horrified breath. “You told _Ginny_?” she hissed. “That's--! What did you _tell_ her?”

 

He blanched a bit. “I can't remember,” he said, smoothly, focusing on stirring his coffee, even though he'd added nothing to it, yet.

 

Which was Draco-ese for _'way too much, and I'd rather not have to suffer for that mistake right now_.' Hermione stared at him in open fury. “I'm going to _strangle_ you,” she promised, quietly. “Just as soon as we're alone on that honeymoon, I'm going to strangle you and leave your body on a Sicilian beach for the seagulls to pick apart.”

 

“The _seagulls_ wouldn't want me,” he said, far too confidently for her liking.

 

“ _How can you profess to know the inner workings of seagulls_?” she demanded, her voice reaching a shrill pitch that immediately earned the attention of everyone else in the coffee shop. Draco grimaced a bit, and gestured at her to 'keep it down' with his hand.

 

“I'm _sorry_ , I didn't know that it was a _secret_. Also, I had _nothing_ but good things to say, I swear,” he added. “I'm _very pleased_ with the current state of... things.”

 

“Oh, well, I'm _so glad_ my friends are receiving _rave reviews_. I'm sure they'll rest easy, knowing I'm a quality shag,” she muttered, flicking a piece of croissant at him. It landed on his waistcoat, and he brushed the crumbs away, looking relieved that her ire was only going to manifest as far as getting crumbs on his clothes. After a moment, some of the fury left her expression, and she looked more thoughtful. “I suppose Ginny's chuffed she's finally able to talk about my sex life at all. If I mentioned even climbing into the same _bed_ as Ron, she'd stick her fingers in her ears and start singing 'la la la' at the top of her lungs.”

 

He started to chuckle, but stopped himself, watching her suspiciously. “So you're _not_ going to leave my strangled corpse on a beach?”

 

She sighed, dropping her head back a bit to stare at the ceiling. “I _suppose_ not,” she muttered, begrudgingly. “I suppose I can leave you with your life. _This_ time. But I'll make you pay hell for it, somehow. Once I figure that part out, I'll let you know your punishment.”

 

“... Can I keep telling her about it?” When she brought her chin back down to glare at him, incredulous, he just threw his hands up in defense. “I'm just trying to establish parameters!”

 

“Were the parameters _unclear_ after my death threat?” she grit out.

 

“If I suddenly go silent on her, she'll know you intervened,” he said, instead of responding directly. His eyebrows lifted pointedly, in a silent reminder that Ginny-on-a-mission was _not_ someone you wanted viewing you as an obstacle.

 

She ground her teeth together, but she knew that if she tried to take away Ginny's source of gossip cold-turkey, the idiot would just assume that the gossip was even juicier than expected and end up going to great lengths to get it. And since it really _wasn't_ all that ground-breaking, that really seemed like a wasted effort. “Keep it vague,” she ordered, eyes narrowing. “There are certain things that I _never_ intended for her to know about how I go about my bedroom business.”

 

Draco fell silent as he tried to imagine which of those things Hermione was most interested in keeping a secret, and a sly smile began to build up on his face.

 

She reached across the table to pinch his nose, earning a squawk. “Stop it. Stop whatever you're thinking.”

 

Leaning back and rubbing his nose, his dumb smile persisted. “You know, all this physical abuse is making me realize that I'm not going to feel bad about making you cry on Sunday,” he teased, the smugness returning to his expression. It only intensified when she rolled her eyes. “You're going to get all splotchy-cheeked and your eyes are going to go all watery, and then you're going to clap your hand over your mouth and look around in mortification, and then you're going to say, 'Damn you, Draco.'”

 

Looking distinctly unimpressed, Hermione finished off her cup of coffee. “Think you missed a calling with Divinations, do you?”

 

“ _Then_ you're going to kiss me,” he finished. “Because I'm so amazing.”

 

She rolled her eyes again, harder. “Alright, Mr. Amazing,” she said, blandly. “I simply cannot wait for my impending emotional breakdown. I am _very_ excited to see what you've got in that Slytherin arsenal of yours.”

 

“I want you to remember this moment of intense disbelief when you burst into glorious tears.”

 

“I promise I will,” she intoned.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Saturday came too quickly.

 

Headmistress McGonagall let them all come to Hogwarts to prepare for the wedding, outfitting the Gryffindor dormitories for the bridal party and the Slytherin dormitories for the groom's party. A nice idea, but in execution, Hermione just found herself deathly annoyed by how often she had to walk from Gryffindor tower _all the way into the bloody dungeons_ to discuss things over with Narcissa or Draco.

 

Her parents also came to stay, and despite their reservations about the wedding altogether, they were nothing but supportive and cheerful, which she was really very grateful for.

 

Narcissa spent most of Saturday out on the grounds with Rose organizing and decorating the actual space. Hermione wasn't sure what the women spoke about when Rose first went out there – it was the first time they'd even encountered each other since Rose had found out about Hermione's torture session at the Manor – but they worked together admirably, even if the air between them was a little strained. David kept things terse and cold with Lucius, which was about what she expected; Lucius, thankfully, did not appear to be surprised or offended by this.

 

Neither Hermione nor Draco had any pre-wedding events planned. He'd found Ron's stag party to be fun, but had no interest in carrying on the 'tradition,' saying simply that he preferred to attend the ceremony _without_ being hungover or having puked the night before.

 

Hermione rather shared his sentiments, although she didn't fight much when Harry forced a bottle of Butterbeer into her hands as they filled the Gryffindor common room with raucous Muggle music.

 

“I heard Malfoy's pledged to make you cry,” Harry said, without preamble, flopping onto the couch next to her.

 

She took a sip of her Butterbeer, almost wincing at how ungodly sweet it was, and shot him a sardonic look. “You can blame your wife for that one. She's got it into his head that the wedding's a failure unless I have some sort of emotional collapse during it. It's ridiculous. He really thinks he's going to make me cry,” she added, with a soft laugh.

 

He hummed thoughtfully. “Are you sure you won't?”

 

Hermione shot a look at him from the corners of her eyes. “What? Since when do I cry at _weddings_?” she reminded him. The chief emotion she recalled feeling at any wedding was intense boredom. Annoyance was a close second, usually at her uncomfortable shoes or itchy clothing.

 

“You cried watching your parents' wedding tape.”

 

“That was _different_ ,” she huffed, shooting him a narrow look. “I should have _never_ shown you that tape. I'll never forget how hard you started laughing when I teared up. They had a _beautiful_ wedding.”

 

“What, and I didn't?” he demanded. He placed his hand on his chest, affected a deeply disgruntled countenance as he eyed her, critically. “Come to think of it, why didn't you cry during _my_ wedding? I think I'm offended, now.”

 

She bit down a smile. “Oh, shut up.”

 

“Or does it have to be on a _tape_ to make you get all teary?” he wondered, looking up at the ceiling in thought as the vaguely resentful expression he'd been forcing faded away. By the fireplace, Ginny and Susan had started dancing in the middle of the room, with James joining in (badly, but she couldn't blame him for that, him only being four). Her attention was dragged back to Harry as he continued murmuring absently. “Well, I don't _have_ any tapes of it. I do have a series of wizarding photographs, though. You think if I put them all together on the wall so it kind of flows in the right order of the events, you'll get properly weepy?”

 

Hermione laughed, half at James' antics on the dancefloor and half at his father's commentary. “Weddings just aren't that emotional, for me,” she said, defensively. “It's different with my parents. They're my _parents_. It's just... Really nice to see them so young and so in love with each other. When you're growing up, you don't really get to see them as proper, un-parent people.”

 

He smiled, leaning his shoulder into hers. “I know,” he assured her. “So. Do I get to have a crack at reading those vows before you get up there, or what?”

 

She groaned at the reminder. “Oh, God, the vows,” she muttered. “They're an absolute trainwreck. I don't know what I'm going to do,” she admitted, softly. She stared at the opening of her Butterbeer, frowning softly, and then twisted a bit on the couch to face him. “You know, maybe having a set of fresh eyes on them will actually help. But you can't tell Ginny or Ron about _any_ of it. Promise me.”

 

Harry considered it, hesitating. “I can promise that I won't tell them _while_ it's still embarrassing. Can we add a clause where after sufficient time has passed and even _you'll_ find it funny, I can say it then?”

 

“Hng. Fine. Let's go.” She pushed off the couch and headed upstairs, Harry hot on her heels.

 

Suddenly, Harry yelped as the stairs turned into a slide, and he tumbled back into the common room. His Butterbeer half-spilled all over the place, especially on his shirt. He managed to get it back upright with a scowl. “Oh, damn it,” he huffed, when he'd gotten his breath back. “ _Really_?”

 

Giggling, Hermione ran lightly back down the stairs that reformed under her feet and hauled out her wand. “Don't worry, I've got it.”

 

“Don't you _dare_ float me!” he warned her, as she flicked her wand.

 

He began to float, shooting a sullen look at her as the rest of the bridal party started laughing. “For the record, I am _not_ enjoying this, and I will be far more critical of what I'm about to read than I might have been _previously_ ,” he enunciated, trying to keep his Butterbeer upright as he was tilted back at a sharp angle.

 

“Noted,” she chuckled, letting him back on the ground once they'd reached the corridor. She led him into her old dormitory, where she'd already set up camp. The dress hung off a wardrobe, and a vanity had been set with some basic make-up and some hair supplies that would ultimately do little to help her.

 

She began rooting through her luggage, and pulled out a folded up piece of parchment. Opening it, she glanced it over and cringed, almost shoving it back in there. But after that hesitation, she passed it to him, face turning pink.

 

Sitting heavily on the bed, Harry read it over, his eyebrows raising. “It's a little...” He trailed off.

 

“Too much?” she asked, softly. “Is it too sappy?”

 

“Uh, no,” he said, firmly. “This is actually really... dry. _'When we met, I did not like you, and I continued to not like you for several years. But lately, you've seemed alright'_?” he read, in utter disbelief. “This is your _wedding vow?_ Hermione, where did you _get_ this? Did you have an _aneurism_ while writing it?”

 

She groaned, putting her face in her hands. She slowly smoothed her palms over her face and hair, looking utterly miserable, and then reached into her luggage again.

 

Her hand came out with no less than thirty pieces of parchment. “Well, here,” she said, dumping them all in his lap. She looked at the pile with a mixture of wistfulness and loathing. “Find the least awful one, then, because I'm _utterly_ out of ideas.”

 

Harry blinked at the mess of vows, some of them tumbling to the floor. “Good God, Hermione, how much time have you spent agonizing over this?” he asked, starting to laugh. He passed her his Butterbeer, setting aside the first vow, and picked up another one at random. He unfolded it, adjusting his glasses against his nose as he began to read.

 

“I've lost count,” she admitted, miserably.

 

As he was reading the second one, he started laughing, but he set it aside. “Do _not_ recount the vomit story from the Ministry,” he advised her, opening up a new one.

 

The next twenty minutes were spent in relative silence as he read, Hermione watching him closely to guage his reaction to each one. Some of the vows made him chuckle or start laughing uproariously, but some of them sobered him, and his expression would grow serious as he read – almost heavy. Some of them he read with an utterly blank face and tossed aside promptly. Towards the end, he returned to the four he'd liked best, his lips forming the words silently as he read, trying to figure out what they'd sound like spoken aloud.

 

Finally, he gave her one. “I think this one's your best one,” he said, sincerely. “It still needs some touching up, but... it's a good base.” She accepted it from him gingerly, almost afraid of which one he'd picked.

 

Hermione read it over, making a bit of a face. “It's not too much?” she asked, softly. “I don't want to be sappy, Harry.”

 

“It's not too much,” he promised. “And you won't be. Besides, it's the most honest one.”

 

“They're all _truthful_.”

 

“Right, but this is the most _honest_ one, and you _know_ what I mean,” he said, dryly. She flushed a bit, avoiding his gaze, and he grinned at her. When her face pinched sourly at his amusement, he started to laugh. “You're absolutely besotted, aren't you?” he asked, torn between worry and happiness and a weird sense of relief.

 

“ _No_. Don't be ridiculous,” she huffed. “It's barely been six months.”

 

His eyebrows lifted incredulously, and he rolled his eyes, adopting a sarcastic tone. “Oh, right, I forgot about your little _time-table_ of romantic confessions. At this point, you're only comfortable saying, 'I sort of don't hate you, or anything,' right?”

 

She shot him a glare. “I don't like rushing into things,” she defended, hotly. The argument felt a lot weaker than it usually did.

 

He patted her knee. “Well, drag your feet all you want, but I know what I'm seeing, here. And I know what I read in _there_ ,” he added, reaching his hand up to flick the underside of the vow he'd chosen, making the paper suddenly fold back over. She continued to look stubborn as she flattened it back out, and he made a frustrated noise. Before she could continue to argue, he'd thrown his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her. After a moment, he whispered, “It's okay to get hurt every once in a while, Hermione. It's how you know you're still alive.”

 

“What a bloody stupid outlook.”

 

He laughed, and blew away a piece of her hair that had started clinging to his mouth. “Well, look at it this way,” he murmured into her ear. “You can save face by _denying_ it all you want, but that won't stop it from hurting if he lets you down.”

 

She inhaled raggedly, and swallowed with a loud gulp. “I know,” she whispered. And she knew _very_ well.

 

“When are you going to tell him?” he wondered.

 

“When I'm dead,” she said, crisply, and he laughed, his arms tightening around her. “You can put it on my tombstone. It'll be a nice parting gift to him.”

 

“George already called having your love confession to _him_ being put on your tombstone,” Harry informed her. “He called dibs on it back in fifth year. Remember when they thought you had a crush on them?”

 

She made an exasperated, _tsk_ ing noise. “All because I helped them with their stupid essay! Serves me _right_ for trying to be _nice_.”

 

He laughed, again, and released her. “Here, let's work this thing over. First thing, I think it needs to be a lot shorter,” Harry murmured, pulling the vow out of her hand. “At this rate, you're going to be blathering for upwards of five minutes. The longer you're up there talking, the more red you're going to get.”

 

Hermione shot the parchment a wary look, but then gave him a wan, grateful smile. “Thanks, Harry.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was asleep when the owl came tapping at the dormitory window. It was tapping softly, and she _almost_ slept through it, except the damn thing was persistent. When it finally got too annoying to bear, she groaned and sat up, shooting a look at her current roommates. Ginny was dead asleep, Albus tucked into the crook of her arm. Susan was flopped face-first onto her bed. And her mother was snoring, as she always did when she fell asleep tipsy.

 

Hermione stood and padded to the window, vaguely recognizing Draco's _awful_ owl. Opening the window, she took the letter from the owl, and hissed in pain when Hercules nipped her. “Stupid little...” she muttered, closing the window in his face. He hooted indignantly and swooped off.

 

Opening the letter, she put her back to the window to take advantage of the moonlight, squinting at the parchment.

 

_Nerves hitting you, yet?_

 

_Astronomy Tower._

 

_D_

 

“Good God. 'D.' What is he, a spy?” she muttered. She shrugged a robe haphazardly over her sleeping clothes – sweatpants and a t-shirt, as it happened – and tiptoed out of the room.

 

The walk from Gryffindor Tower to the Astronomy Tower was blessedly shorter than the one to the dungeons, although she was a little impressed that he'd walked all the way upstairs from the bottom just to meet her. When she got there, she squinted around the dark and _empty_ space, seeing no sign of life at all. Where the devil was he?

 

Just as she rolled her eyes and turned to head back to bed, he was _there_ , right behind her. “Boo.”

 

She _screamed_ , wheeling back from him and reaching for her wand – which she realized she hadn't even brought with her. Immediately upon recognizing him, she clasped a hand to her heart. “You _blasted idiot_ ,” she seethed, shoving at his chest. He laughed, catching her wrist and tugging her closer so he could wrap his arms around her, leaning down to catch her mouth with his.

 

When he pulled back a bit – and after she'd calmed slightly – she asked, “What did you want?”

 

“I hadn't kissed you in nearly forty-eight hours.”

 

She waited, but it seemed like no further answer was forthcoming. She let her jaw drop open a bit. “So you had to do it in the middle of the _night_? I was _sleeping_.”

 

He was still grinning, using his thumb to push her jaw up so he could kiss her again. He murmured, against her lips: “What was I supposed to do, wait until tomorrow like some _peasant_?”

 

“You are so stupid,” she muttered back.

 

He hummed in agreement, deepening the kiss, and she felt some of her irritation at being woken up at God-knows-what-time ebb away. She wasn't sure how many minutes passed before she sighed a bit and leaned her head back, breaking the kiss. “I am not spending my pre-wedding night snogging in the Astronomy Tower like some _teenager_ ,” she huffed. He merely transferred his kissing to her now-exposed neck, and she laughed. “Draco! We should _both_ be asleep.”

 

However, she didn't stop him when his hands snuck under her robes. After feeling her up, though, he stopped himself. Pulling back slowly, he shot her a suspicious look and grabbed her robes, spreading them and looking at her baggy t-shirt and sweatpants with a critical eye. “I'm going to _burn_ everything of yours I hate, when we get back from Sicily,” he decided.

 

“They're _comfortable_. Besides, I fell asleep next to my friends and my mum, what was I going to do that in? Lingerie?”

 

He issued a long-suffering sigh, but lowered his head back to her neck.

 

“Draco, what time is it?” she breathed.

 

“Three.”

 

“In the _morning_? Damn it, Draco, we have to be up in four hours.” She twisted away from him a bit, and he caught her, pulling her back against his chest so he could murmur into her ear.

 

“Sleep with me.”

 

“I'm not sleeping in those frigid dungeons. It's only until _tomorrow_ , you cabbage.”

 

He rocked with her a bit, groaning dramatically. “I _detest_ waiting. I've never had to wait for anything in my whole life, until you came along. Now I've grown _used_ to it. I, a _Malfoy_ , have grown _accustomed_ to _waiting_. Do you know how many generations of spoiled snobbery I'm _single-handedly_ ending?”

 

“Too many?” she guessed, lightly.

 

“You are the worst wife I've ever had,” he muttered into her hair, petulant.

 

She laughed, walking forward. Since he refused to let her go, he was forced to walk with her, and they toddled like penguins to the top of the stairs. “To be fair, I'm also the best. Draco, if you don't let me sleep tonight, I'm going to have to go to sleep _early_ tomorrow night, on our first night in Sicily. Is that what you want?”

 

That worked, and he released her immediately. “And when we get back, we get to do that christening thing in the Manor that Ginny mentioned.”

 

“ _No_ christening. I'm still traumatized from when your parents caught us _snogging_.”

 

He followed her down the stairs. “They thought it was 'sweet'. And I'm sure they'd be delighted at how seriously we're taking our duty to impregnate you--”

 

“ _No christening_.”

 

“Just a little,” he wheedled, trying not to grin at her exasperated expression.

 

“Draco.”

 

“Just a _little_.”

  
“No!”

 


	44. Beauty Is Agony

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Four: Beauty Is Agony**

 

…

 

One second, she was blissfully asleep.

 

The next, she was being shaken so hard in her bed that for a moment, she panicked – _Death Eaters! They're in Hogwarts!_ Her eyes flew open, and she automatically reached for her wand, only to blink up at Ginny's maniacal grin. “What--” she whimpered, still half-asleep.

 

“You're _getting married_!” Ginny screamed, shaking her again.

 

“Stop!” she gurgled, shoving Ginny off of her. “You're going to break my _neck_!” She sat up gingerly, massaging the side of her neck with a grimace. She watched balefully as Ginny bounced around the perimeter of the bed, screaming indistinctly. “Can you _please_ try and bring your level of enthusiasm to somewhere below mine?” she asked, pointedly. “It's _my_ wedding.”

 

“You're not being enthusiastic enough,” her friend said, critically. She gestured at the wardrobe. “Put on your dress!”

 

“No, the ceremony's not until one,” Hermione grumbled, sliding out of bed. “Where is everyone? Is there breakfast?” She hoped so. She hoped there was grapefruit. And pumpkin juice.

 

Ginny stared at her. “How are you thinking of eating, right now? Aren't you the least bit excited?”

 

“I can be excited _and_ hungry.”

 

The redhead groaned at her grumpy attitude. “Can't you just jump up and down with me a _little_ before you go downstairs and pretend to be all cool and nonchalant about today?” she whined, sticking her lower lip out. “I've been dreaming about your wedding almost as long as _you_ have. Come _on_. The door's closed. No one will see.”

 

Hermione looked around the room, and true to Ginny's word, no one was there. The door was closed. “Cast a silencing charm,” she ordered.

 

A brilliant grin spread across Ginny's face as she scrambled for her wand.

 

Once the charm was up, Hermione grabbed Ginny's hands and started squealing with her, jumping up and down. They circled around each other as they bounced around the room, until their legs got tired. Practically _vibrating_ with eagerness, Ginny released her, clapping. “Yay. Thank you,” she exclaimed. She watched Hermione smooth her t-shirt a bit, and added, “I won't tell anyone you ever did that.”

 

Reddening a bit, Hermione muttered, “Thank _you_. Ready to go eat?”

 

Undoing the charm, Ginny nodded, hooking her arm around Hermione's to drag her downstairs. A table had been transfigured in the center of the common room – probably from the couch, if its absence was any indication – and everyone was sitting sleepily around it. They perked when she arrived, though, throwing their hands up and cheering. Hermione went beet-red, waving awkwardly.

 

“Okay, okay,” she said, loudly, when the cheering persisted long past the usual ten seconds. “ _Alright_. Thank you, everyone. Stop. _Stop_.” Laughing softly, she sat down at the seat reserved for her at the head of the table, Harry to her right.

 

He grinned at her, still sluggish from just waking up. “Good morning,” he greeted, cordially. “Your hair is exceptionally unruly, today.”

 

“Why, _thank_ you,” she said, in a similarly polite tone. And she continued, with a duchess-esque wave of her hand: “And may I extend that same compliment to you? Your hair looks like it has been nested in by a thousand college-aged pigeons.”

 

“A _thousand_ ,” he repeated, as if impressed.

 

“That's right.”

 

“Well, now I know what I want for my _Prophet_ blurb on my next birthday,” he said, proudly. “Ginny, take a note, will you?”

 

“You're both idiots,” Ginny cut in, impatiently. She had a piece of parchment she was referring to as she spoke. “Hermione. Okay. Are you ready for your schedule? Oh, what am I saying, of course you are. Your entire life is schedules. Okay. So. Seven a.m. Eat breakfast. Seven-thirty a.m. Maybe still eating breakfast. _Eight_ a.m.--”

 

Hermione blinked rapidly at the deluge of words, and then reached over for the parchment. “Why don't I maybe just _read_ it,” she suggested, gently.

 

Ginny yanked it away, pressing it protectively against her chest. “ _No_. I'm helping,” she insisted. “I'm taking over Harry's witnessing duties because you _obviously_ didn't consider that when you chose him over me to be your witness. He's utter bollocks at witnessing duties. I had to do _all_ the work at Ron's wedding.”

 

Harry made an indignant noise. “You just got pissed the entire time!” he accused.

 

“I did all of it _while_ getting pissed,” she corrected. She was speaking rapid-fire, like she was in a film noir. “And that was _really_ stressful for me, to commit to both doing your job and having the drunken time of my life. You're selfish and I'm too good for you. Moving on!” she continued, brusquely ignoring his offended squawk. “Hermione: At eight a.m., you get into the bath, and we _depilate_.”

 

Hermione stared at her, eyes wide. “The way you said that sounded absolutely horrifying,” she whispered.

 

“Oh, it will be. We don't have time to be gentle. We need to make you as smooth as a thousand baby angels,” Ginny said, nodding so hard that Hermione was half-afraid her head would fall right off. “We got this really nice wax from Susan's friend.”

 

“Wax? I'll just shave,” Hermione insisted.

 

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Over my _dead body_ you'll shave,” she said, grimly. “I'll hold you down while Susan applies.”

 

“This is beginning to sound an awful lot like you two are going to be handling my naked body,” Hermione said, slowly, edging away from Ginny a bit. _That_ managed to catch Ron's attention, and he looked up from his food for the first time that morning to start following the conversation. Hermione glared at him, and he reddened, shrugging a bit.

 

Ginny reached for her shoulder and clasped it. “This is girl time, and it is sacred. Also, you can't be trusted to inflict that kind of pain on yourself. It's sensitive down there.”

 

“If you think I'm letting you _depilate_ my _genitalia_ ,” Hermione enunciated. “You're very wrong.”

 

“Look, I can't argue about this with you unless I pencil it into the schedule,” Ginny informed her, primly. “And there simply isn't a single spare minute, so I'm going to go ahead and ignore you. Okay, at nine a.m.--”

 

She let out an offended gasp. “It won't take an _hour_.”

 

“I allotted the time because I wasn't sure how bad it was, down there,” Ginny informed her, without taking her eyes from the paper. “If we have free time at the end, we can use it to fix up your eyebrows again. They're getting all shapeless. At nine a.m., we bring Narcissa in to deal with your hair, since she's the only person in existence who's ever managed to make it look presentable.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, letting her head roll with it to stare at Harry. “Are you going to let her do this to me on my _wedding day_?” she asked, letting her eyes narrow a bit.

 

Harry's eyes flicked between Hermione and his wife, both of whom were putting on their best, _shrew-iest_ glares. His slowing chewed as he struggled to buy some time, but eventually he had to swallow. And when he did, he exclaimed: “What was that, Ron? You're right, we _haven't_ been to the Quidditch Pitch, yet! Let's go right now? Well, if you're _sure_!” he chuckled, in a grand tone. He stood, ripping his arm free from Hermione's white-knuckled grasp, and hauled Ron to his feet.

 

Ron protested, grabbing his plate to carry it with him, struggling to keep all of it from falling to the floor as Harry shoved him to the door. Hermione stared after them, her jaw dropping in utter betrayal, before she shrieked, “You are a _coward_ , Harry Potter!”

 

He waved without looking back at her. “Thanks, Hermione, I _will_ have fun!” Then they were gone.

 

Hermione slowly slid her glare from the common room door to Ginny, who looked so insufferably smug that Hermione could instantly see what it was that drew her and Draco together. “I told you he wasn't fit to witness,” she huffed. “He can't even protect you from his insane wife. Honestly, Hermione, this wedding was doomed to be a trainwreck the second you chose him. Eat up, because you're going to need your strength to get through the depilating.”

 

“Susan, help me,” Hermione pleaded.

 

“No, I really want to see how the wax turns out,” Susan said, brightly. “It's supposed to be the only one on the market that doesn't cause ingrown hairs!”

 

Hermione glared bitterly at her croissant. “I hate my friends,” she whispered.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Twenty five minutes of screaming and cursing and _blinding pain_ later – the wax had been too hot, and then it had been applied too thinly and had to be applied _again –_ Hermione had banned them _both_ permanently from the bathroom so she could finish the job _herself_.

 

“Hermione, don't be embarrassed,” Ginny called through the door, plaintive. “I've seen them a million times in the locker room!”

 

“Yeah, it's cute,” Susan added.

 

“What?” she heard Ginny say, her voice dropping a bit. “Don't call it cute. What are you doing?”

 

Susan's voice dropped, too. “What? Why? Was that weird?”

 

“ _Very_.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring them so she could focus on not passing out. She read the directions again, groaning a bit. Pull the skin taut. Then _yank_. She grit her teeth, growling a low, pained scream as she jerked her hand away from herself, wax strip in hand. She stared at the little hairs in the wax. “The _nonsense_ we go through,” she grit out. “Is. _Ridiculous_.” Grabbing the warmed wax again, she inhaled deeply, pulling some of it out on the little wooden applicator. “Yay, women's beauty standards,” she whispered, bitterly.

 

“Hermione, let us in!” Ginny pleaded. Hermione continued to ignore her, frowning in concentration as she applied more wax.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Narcissa regarded her hair with a sharp eye. “You use too much conditioner,” she suddenly observed, after ten minutes of silence. “I've hired a hairdresser. She is going to be the hands through which I sculpt my _vision_.”

 

A woman came through the door, just then, shooting Narcissa a tired look. She had several bags in her hands, which she dropped on the floor by the vanity. She looked to be about thirty, and her hair had been dyed to resemble an oil spill, which even Hermione had to admit looked neat. “Don't say it like that,” she ordered, flatly. She shot Hermione a smile through the mirror. “Hi, I'm Agathe. I've heard your hair's impossible, and I agreed not to charge if I could take before and after pictures. Cool?”

 

Hermione blinked a bit. “I... suppose,” she said, uncertainly, and before she could even finish agreeing, Agathe had snapped her picture. She winced a bit at the flash.

 

Setting the camera down, Agathe cracked her knuckles. “Let's get to it, then. You have a sensitive scalp?”

 

“Um, yes.”

 

She hissed in sympathy, picking up a comb. “That's a shame.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Okay, beauty was agony.

 

But she couldn't argue that agony didn't produce _results._

 

By noon, the make-up artist had declared that he was done, and when Hermione had turned to look at herself in the mirror, she'd sucked in a surprised breath. The make-up was understated but lovely, as she'd requested. Her hair was half-done up in some elaborate messy up-do that was dotted with shining silver flowers, and curls tumbled artfully over her shoulder in a way that _really_ freaking itched her neck. However, she was forced to concede that she _looked_ pretty damn good, even if she felt like her scalp was being bathed in the fires of hell.

 

It was just a shame that she would never again be willing to go through all this nonsense to look this good. Seriously. Never again. Not even once. Even if she got married a second time, no. Not ever.

 

Standing carefully (she couldn't shake the feeling that the slightest wrong move would send her hair into immediate disarray, despite Agathe's promises to the contrary), she turned to survey the dress. The silver flower motif from her hair carried over into it. It was white. It looked fairy-tale-princess-y. It was the kind of dress little girls probably dreamed about looking beautiful in.

 

She was terrified to put it on because she was pretty sure she'd rip it.

 

Ginny and Susan were still in the common room, and the second she called for them, she could hear them _sprinting_ up the stairs, ecstatic that their exile had finally ended. Of course, they insisted on touching her smooth legs, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and pointing out that it didn't even look angry and red, which was apparently very important in the world of waxing.

 

 _Finally_ , though, they helped her into the dress, buttoning up the back with gentle fingers as she looked at herself shyly in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe.

 

“You look amazing,” Susan whispered, smiling at her reflection. Hermione mustered a smile back. Her stomach was in knots, and she wasn't sure if that was because she was hungry or because she was suddenly nauseated.

 

Nodding a bit, she breathed, “Thanks.”

 

“You missed lunch,” Ginny added. “Did you want some of what was left over? The elves made this fantastic roast--”

 

“No,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “No, I don't want _anything_ in my stomach, right now. I think I'm actually in danger of seeing my breakfast, again.” She reached up to scratch her head, and then stopped short, grimacing. She was pretty sure she wasn't allowed to touch her head at _all_. “And my head is _so itchy_.”

 

Susan glanced around, and then grabbed some tweezers off the vanity. “Here, you can kind of, um, poke at the itch,” she suggested, passing it to her.

 

Hermione fidgeted with it a bit, trying to ease the crawling sensation a bit. Finally, she relaxed, sighing in relief. “Actually, it looks like this thing is holding pretty well,” she said, wonderingly. “I wonder how much hairspray is in it.”

 

“I bet if you rapped your knuckles on it, it'd go _donnnnggg_ ,” Ginny sounded out, letting her eyes go half-lidded. “I think we have to head down in a few minutes. Where's your Mum?”

 

“She said she'd be back up to get me and my dad,” Hermione murmured. “When it was all 'ready.' It's weird. It's weird thinking that all my friends are sitting downstairs right now, waiting for me to show up. I bet they're all bored out of their skulls. Are your parents here, yet?”

 

Ginny nodded. “Dad's gonna corner your parents during the reception to ask them dentist questions,” she warned. “Sorry in advance.”

 

“And Molly?”

 

The redhead smiled, fondly. “Ready to burst into tears at any second.”

 

Hermione chuckled. “God, is it one, yet? I just want it all to be over with,” she muttered, turning towards her bed to reassure herself that she knew where her vow was. She was pretty sure she'd have to bring it up to the end of the aisle with her; she didn't quite trust herself to have it memorized. “Oh, bollocks, where's my bouquet?”

 

“Downstairs,” Susan assured her. “Your dad's been put in charge of it. He looked like he wanted to help.”

 

Laughing again, Hermione headed for the door. “I'm beginning to think of this room as a cell I was absolutely _tormented_ in, so I'm going to head down,” she decided.

 

“Great, I still need to get dressed, myself,” Susan said, and Ginny nodded.

 

“Best of luck,” Hermione wished them, gravely, and closed the door behind her before continuing down the corridor to the stairs. The dress felt a little tricky to walk in. She moved slowly, at first, afraid of stepping on the hem. However, after a few steps of _not_ tripping or tearing the dress into rags, she grew a little more confident, walking somewhat briskly down the stairs.

 

Her dad was sitting on the couch, looking thoughtfully at the bouquet. When he heard her enter the room, he looked up, looking briefly stunned. His jaw firmed, and he swallowed, with what looked like a fair amount of difficulty.

 

Then he stood, setting the flowers on the couch, and took a step towards her. Then he stopped, looking momentarily helpless and scared.

 

She smiled, closing the distance between them to throw her arms around his neck.

 

His arms closed around her, squeezing. “I don't think I approve of you looking quite this grown-up,” he whispered, his voice breaking the tiniest bit. “I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to get any older than ten without my permission. What happened?”

 

Hermione laughed, squeezing him back. “I love you, Dad.”

 

“You look absolutely stunning,” he said, pulling back to give her a proud, somewhat-quavering smile. “Go pick up your bouquet. Your mum'll be here any minute, wanting a thousand pictures.”

 

True to his word, Rose entered a few minutes later, and after bursting into delighted tears at seeing Hermione all decked out like a princess, forced them to pose for no less than eighteen photographs. Once Ginny and Susan came down in _their_ dresses, Rose insisted on several more, until finally Susan pointed out that they were running the risk of being late.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She never thought, when she'd spent seven years of her life in this castle, that one day she'd be walking through the empty corridors in a wedding dress. Some of the ghosts came out to watch her pass, and she waved awkwardly at them. Professor Binns said, ' _welcome back, Ms. Grant_ ,' which made Ginny snort.

 

Nick embellished his hand in a complex move and executed a very dramatic, foppish bow. Hermione stopped to offer him a curtsey, which made him grin widely.

 

Peeves was notably absent, which Hermione assumed meant the Bloody Baron had intervened. Whatever the reason, she was _glad_. She'd never much cared for the annoying little poltergeist, and didn't trust him not to dump water on her, or something.

 

She continued down the corridor, and Ginny shuffled ahead to grab the door, spilling bright sunshine onto the dark stones of her former home.

 

Luna was waiting just outside, and she smiled when the bridal party approached. She was wearing what looked like Joseph's technicolor dreamcoat. Which, obviously. Of _course_ she was. “Oh, good timing, the ceremony's about to start,” she said, cheerfully. “Harry's waiting at the front for you.”

 

Hermione almost pointed out that her arrival _was_ the start of the ceremony, but instead, she just smiled. “Thanks, Luna.”

 

She followed the dreamy blond, realizing she hadn't even seen what magic Narcissa and Rose had wrought on the grounds. She was surprised, then, to see that an elaborate series of trellises had been erected that were already overflowing with flowering vines. It wasn't the gazebo, but it was pretty bloody close. Because of the new structures, she couldn't see inside, although she heard the vague murmur of people chatting as they waited for the procession to begin.

 

Harry was peering inside when she approached, but he turned around when he heard their shuffling feet in the grass. His eyebrows shot up when he saw her. “Holy _wow_ ,” he said, eyes going wide. “Wow. Wow. Wow to _all of it_.”

 

Hermione fought back a stupid grin. “Thank you,” she said, feeling a little smug. She threaded her hand through her father's waiting arm, and nodded to her friends and her mum. “You can head inside. I'm fine,” she promised, when Ginny hesitated. “Really. I know what to do from this point forward.”

 

Ginny sighed, lingering a bit so she was the last one in. “He's going to remember this moment for the rest of his life, you know.”

 

She felt her face heat a bit, not sure how to respond.

 

The redhead rolled her eyes good-naturedly, giving her a lingering hug. “You are one stubborn little sow,” she said. “You're lucky you're so pretty.” With a wink, she turned and headed inside.

 

Hermione inhaled deeply as the orchestra began their first note.

 

“You okay?” her dad whispered, as Harry straightened his spine and walked down the aisle to take his place up by the podium.

 

“No,” she murmured. “I am going to faint.”

 

“Should I drag you up, at that point? Or maybe I can do a Weekend at Bernie's thing and get some sunglasses,” he offered, smiling weakly.

 

Hermione choked out a laugh. “Do _not_ Weekend at Bernie's me.”

 

“Well, don't faint, then. Don't put me in the position to make that decision,” he pointed out, in a practical tone. “If I get put in that position, then I'll be forced to do what I think is best. And that may involve putting sunglasses on you and turning you into a human puppet. Things get strange in the heat of the moment, Hermione.”

 

She started laughing harder, and covered her face with her bouquet. “ _Stop_ it,” she pleaded, giggling. She could feel her face reddening. “If I'm all blotchy when I go in there, I'm reverse-disowning you.”

 

David shot her a relieved smile, just happy to see her relaxed. “Ready?”

 

Hermione inhaled deeply again. “Yes.”

 

“You okay?” he asked, again, his eyebrows raising a bit.

 

She smiled at him. “Yes,” she said, softer.

 

He nodded and took a half-step forward, moving slowly as she fell into step beside him. They moved into the entryway to a faux-courtyard, ringed on all sides by flower-covered trellises. The grass here had been removed or covered, and instead flat stone cobbles formed a neat square down the middle of which a runner formed the aisle. On either side, about thirty seats, all of which looked like hand-crafted wood, because apparently everything about the Malfoys was just ridiculous and over-the-top. The sixty people in attendance turned to look at her as she entered, and she felt her face heat again. She balked for a second, and only moved forward because her father was still walking, dragging her alongside him. Swallowing, she forced herself to ignore the sea of staring faces and look forward, to the end of the aisle.

 

Draco was standing, ramrod straight, looking curiously tense as he watched her approach. She realized as she was midway down the aisle that he was holding his breath, and watched with fascination as he came to the same realization and let it out in a rough exhale. Then, he smiled.

 

She hadn't expected him to smile so sincerely in front of such a large audience, half of which were Slytherin, but he did. He smiled in the same openly carefree way that he smiled at her in the coffee shop.

 

He smiled like he'd just been on a broom ride, or a rollercoaster.

 

His elation was so clear and poignant that for a second she was _sincerely worried_ that she might _actually_ start crying before she even reached the podium. Mortified at the very thought, she bit the inside of her cheek, _hard_ , to get herself back under control. Then, she felt her father's arm fall away, and she was in front of Draco, finding it hard to look away from the intensity in his blue eyes.

 

“Hey,” she whispered, by way of greeting, and his smile widened into a stupid grin.

 

“Hi,” he whispered back.

 

The wizard overseeing their union – a wizened old man she did not know – stepped up to the couple, causing a hush to fall over the audience. “Greetings, to our family, friends, and loved ones,” he intoned. “Thank you for joining us here, today, as we join this couple in matrimonial bond. If the bride and the groom will clasp their right hands together?”

 

She turned to pass her bouquet to Harry, and then turned back to Draco, grasping his right hand firmly in hers. The old wizard produced his wand and laid the point across their joined hands.

 

“You may speak your words of promise to each other, now,” he declared, although he stumbled over that part of the ceremony a bit, since it wasn't actually part of the one he usually performed.

 

Draco straightened a bit as he drew in a breath to speak, and she noticed immediately that _he_ did not feel any need to produce a piece of parchment to read from. _Damn_ him. Looking into her eyes, he spoke softly, but his voice seemed to effortlessly carry across the entire space. Narcissa must have had the place charmed.

 

“Hermione,” he said, and her attention snapped back to him. “From the first moment I laid eyes on you, searching for Neville Longbottom's toad on the train to Hogwarts, I knew instantly that you were going to be a huge amount of trouble for me.” Soft laughter filtered through the crowd, and Hermione bit back a smile, remembering that moment – she'd merely dipped her head into the compartment to ask snidely if _anyone_ had seen a toad, and she remembered the little blonde boy giving her a disgusted look and suggesting she look in a mirror. Draco let a fleeting smile cross his face, too, before he sobered.

 

“And I watched you grow up from a bossy little termagant into a bossier, bigger termagant,” he continued, ignoring the way her eyes narrowed a bit. “And into one of the first people outside of my house that I felt even a grudging bit of respect for.”

 

Her eyes widened, her lips parting a bit.

 

He nodded at her unspoken question. “Yes. It's true. There weren't a lot of people in this school that I was afraid to enter a duel with. Thankfully, you never seemed very interested in dueling. But you grew up, and into yourself, and became the amazing witch that I know today. And I grew up and fell apart. But since reconnecting with you six months ago, you make me realize what I _can_ be. And you make me realize the many things I want to be. And I can't remember the last time I wanted to be anything. But you make me want things I thought I'd given up on years ago. Like a future.”

 

She heard her heart pounding in her ears, and for a moment she was terrified that whatever amplifying charm Narcissa had used would make everyone else hear it, too. Since it didn't seem to be distracting Draco, though, she had to dismiss that as paranoia.

 

He sucked in a breath, pausing a bit. “So I promise, Hermione, to be the man that you've made me envision myself to be, and to not let this opportunity go to waste. And I promise to always be someone you're proud to call yours. I promise to respect you, and make you laugh, and make you take a damn break from work when you need it.” Another soft ripple of laughter, mostly from her side of the congregation.

 

He swallowed, and his grip on hers tightened briefly. “And I promise that in ten years, when our duty is done, I'll fight you tooth and nail when you try to let me go.”

 

Draco fell silent, then, and a hush followed his parting words. The hush was promptly broken by George yelling, “Whoo! Damn straight, Malf--” Then, there was silence again, presumably because Molly had boxed his ears and hexed him silent.

 

Hermione choked back the instinctive bite of laughter as her fiance rolled his eyes and issued a dramatic sigh.

 

“Dry eyes,” she whispered, drawing his attention to them.

 

“Weasley intervened,” he defended, in a similarly low tone, and she shook her head a bit, feeling a brief moment of superiority when she realized that she won this little wager.

 

Then she took a breath, ready to start. And stopped, staring at nothing. Then, she held up a finger as she turned back to Harry. When she turned back, she was unfolding her parchment, and shot Draco a warning glare when his lips quirked at the corners. “Sorry, I'm not as eloquent,” she said, flatly. “So bear with me.”

 

“You have to look me in the eyes when you say it. It's the rule.”

  
“No, it isn't. Shut up,” she said, exasperated. She heard him choking back a chuckle as she glanced at the parchment, her cheeks already beginning to redden slightly as she perused the words there. Hermione swallowed a bit, hoping that Harry's advice on this was as solid as he seemed to think it was. Inhaling and exhaling once to regain a sense of calm, she began:

 

“Draco, there are a thousand reasons why we shouldn't ever be together,” she said, softly. She glanced up at him, gratified to see a flicker of confusion on his face. “I count them to myself every day. I'm bossy. You're sneaky. I'm an unrelenting, pigheaded workaholic. You're a spoiled, whiny brat. The list is longer than I could even begin to try and get through in the amount of time it takes me to get up and get ready to see you every morning. But every morning I go through it, because I'm sure that eventually I'll come across the one solid reason that will keep me from liking you more than I think I should.”

 

He was frowning, and she felt worried for a second. Maybe she wasn't saying it the way it sounded when she'd wrote it down. She hurried on. “But I haven't, yet. I know I should dread having to see you every day, but I never do. Seeing you in the morning is usually the highlight, actually,” she whispered, swallowing.

 

She didn't dare look back up, and just barreled on. “You challenge me and make me laugh and make me think about things in new ways, and I've come to realize that if I didn't get the chance to talk to you every morning, I'd feel unbalanced. And it's a little scary, to have someone whose input is so important to the way you think that if they ever did leave, you might end up--” She was muttering, and Harry called her attention to it by clearing his throat behind her. She hesitated, and raised her voice a bit, her eyes still locked on the parchment. “You might end up feeling like you were a little less than you were before. Even though I felt like a whole person before I met you, you filled in the cracks that I didn't even know were there. And I feel like maybe I've become better because of it.”

 

Now to the promises. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, glancing up at him, and was momentarily stalled by the look in his eyes – serious, and intent. Utterly focused, but not in that absent way when he'd washed her hair. His gaze was so laser-focused, she could feel it searing her. She reddened a bit, embarrassed, and her eyes flicked to the old wizard pointing a wand at their hands.

 

But she straightened her spine and forced herself to look into his eyes. She didn't need the parchment for this part. “Draco, I promise to always try to be better than I was the day before. I promise to talk to you when I'm angry, so that you can make me laugh through it, like you always do. I promise to trust you, always,” she whispered. “And to never let my faith in you flicker or fail. I promise to try to be as devoted a parent as I think you will be, and I pray I don't let us both down in that venture.”

 

She quirked an eyebrow a little. “And I promise one trip to the rollercoasters per year without complaint.”

 

His serious, almost soft expression broke, and his eyes closed as he grinned. Slowly, they opened again, and he shook his head a bit at her. “If you think I'll ever get bored of going, you're wrong,” he said, in an undertone.

 

“I'll take it back, if you want.”

 

“No, it's done. Vows complete,” he decided, squeezing her hand. They shared a pair of dumb grins, and she passed the parchment back to Harry. Another ripple of laughter went through the audience, but she barely heard it.

 

“With these promises, I bind your lives together,” the old wizard intoned, and a silver thread came out of the tip of his wand, looking almost like liquid mercury as it wound around their hands and up their forearms. She felt a warmth pooling in her hand, where her palm was joined against his. “And with this binding, we witness your devotion to each other that will endure until you pass through the veil of this world. Is it so witnessed?”

 

“It is witnessed,” Harry said, in time with Theo.

 

“So mote it be.”

 

“So mote it be,” the entire congregation echoed, Hermione and Draco included.

 

The wizard hesitated, and then said: “And I believe now you will kiss?” He sounded uncertain, almost like he couldn't believe that they'd decided to include such a frivolous thing.

 

Hermione laughed a bit, and Draco tugged her towards him, his free hand curling possessively around her neck as he kissed her. Their friends and family began clapping and cheering as the kiss lingered (at least, hers did – his side was noticeably more muted, and their applause was soft, polite, and short), and when they finally broke apart, they were both a little pink in the cheek. Draco transferred her right hand into his left, and they turned to head down the aisle, both of them grinning. Hermione sent a few shy waves to her friends, a few of which looked a little gobsmacked, still. They hadn't really all been kept up to date on how she was getting along with Draco, these days.

 

They made it outside of the trellis, and then Draco stopped. “Where are we supposed to go after this?” he murmured, looking around.

 

She hesitated before responding. “You know, I have absolutely no idea.”

 

They looked at each other for a long moment before they both burst into laughter, both of them overflowing with giddiness. Draco managed to come to, first: “You were all set to cry before that damn Weasley spoke up.”

 

“Oh, keep _dreaming_ ,” she scoffed, as Harry appeared to shuffle them both towards the castle, as the reception was being held in the paved grounds between the buildings to take advantage of both the beauty of the castle and the decent weather. She hadn't seen that, yet, either.

 

As they started walking, she realized that Draco hadn't yet let go of her hand, and felt something flutter in her stomach.

 


	45. There's Nothing Else To Compare

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Five: There's Nothing Else To Compare**

 

…

 

It took about half an hour to get everyone into the reception area, which had Narcissa's distinctive style all over it: Floating fairy lights, massive and ornate ice sculptures, and flowering vines growing up the walls of the castle. A dance floor stood central in the biggest courtyard, and a DJ was positioned in front of the thirty-person orchestra stationed near it. Hermione wanted to ask how the DJ had managed to get his computer to work on Hogwarts grounds, and filed it away for a time when she wasn't being inundated with more congratulations than she could conceivably respond to. She was also a little curious as to whether or not this was the same orchestra from the ceremony or actually a separate one, but she was almost _afraid_ of that answer.

 

A bar with no less than ten bartenders curved around one of the tower bases, and given how many _more_ people were attending the reception, she was honestly a little worried that ten wouldn't even be enough. The _Daily Prophet_ reporter wanted to snap pictures of the new couple immediately, and Hermione posed awkwardly, her smile tight as the camera flashed.

 

After a few minutes of that, though, Narcissa swooped in, dismissing the photographer to take a picture of the ice sculpture of a maiden with a gaggle of swans in taking off around her.

 

“You're ready for your waltz, darling?” she asked, looking between them. Hermione felt her stomach launch into her throat, but she nodded, anyway. “Good. We'll give everyone about ten minutes to get settled, and the orchestra time to get ready. Oh, no, not there!” she called to one of the servers, who was about to set a plate of passed hors d'oeuvres on the ice sculpture of rearing unicorn. Making a delicate, frustrated noise, Narcissa darted away to stop him.

 

Hermione glanced at Draco. “I think I just forgot how to dance that stupid thing.”

 

“Don't be silly, you could do it in your sleep, by this point,” he promised her. He shook the hand of some friend of Lucius', nodding gratefully in response to the congratulations. “Thank you. Please, enjoy some champagne.”

 

She saw Blaise getting a drink and flirting heavily with one of the bartenders, and stifled the urge to roll her eyes. Good. Maybe he'd leave her alone all night.

 

Harry and Theo actually looked like they were getting along just swimmingly, having a somewhat animated conversation – mostly, it was animated on Harry's side, but even Theo seemed heavily engaged in whatever debate they were having, a slight smile on his face. When Ginny approached, though, passing Harry a glass of champagne, the other man's face became slightly shuttered as he withdrew from the both of them a bit.

 

Frowning a bit as she watched Theo make some excuse and walk away, she tilted her head a bit as she considered this new and interesting suspicion. She wondered if Draco knew.

 

The cacophony of the orchestra tuning up startled her out of her thoughts, and she mustered a bright smile when she realized that Neville was trying to congratulate her, Hannah at his side. “Oh, thank you,” she said, stepping forward to hug him. She realized she hadn't really taken a lot of time out, lately, to see him; he'd started working at Hogwarts after his brief stint as an Auror, and as much as she'd always tried to visit, it was a long way to go and she'd just been terribly busy.

 

Neville returned the hug, and when he pulled back, he hesitated a bit as he looked at Draco. But he stuck his hand out. “Congratulations, Malfoy.”

 

Draco shook it. “You too, Longbottom. Abbot,” he said, nodding at the both of them.

 

Behind them, Narcissa was waving at them to approach the dancefloor, and the DJ spoke, putting a wand to his throat to amplify his voice. “Ladies and gentleman, I believe we are going to have the distinct pleasure of seeing our newly married couple dance together for the first time of their marriage. Gather around!”

 

 _Or don't_ , Hermione thought, feeling her stomach flip-flop a bit as hundreds of people suddenly started milling around the dance floor, eagerly watching as she walked with Draco towards it. The flash of the camera started up again, somewhere in the crowd.

 

“I might throw up on you,” she muttered to her new husband.

 

“If you throw up on me, you have to go on a conciliatory broom ride,” he threatened, idly, from the corner of his mouth.

 

Hermione shot him a faint glare. “You're mean.”

 

“That's a fair punishment for _puking_ on me,” he defended. “Do _not_ puke on me. I will ride that broom at top speeds and _well above_ the suggested height limits.”

 

“Now I kind of want to, just so I can _refuse_ to go on a conciliatory punishment ride,” she said, narrowing her eyes a bit as they reached the center of the floor. “Ruining your suit will just be a lovely cherry on top.”

 

He brought them into the starting form, her hand in his and his other hand around her waist. “It goes one, pause, two-three,” he reminded her, softly. “And I cannot stress how important it is that you do not, at any point, get sick on me. This suit costs more than your parents' house.”

 

“You don't even know the _exchange rate_ into pounds.”

 

“Hermione.”

 

She laughed softly, putting her other hand on his shoulder. “Alright. Fine. I'll keep it in my stomach.”

 

The starting notes of the song they'd practiced the Viennese Waltz to _so many times_ began, the orchestra starting without much preamble, and she tensed a bit as she prepared to step into the fast-paced dance. Suddenly, though, the orchestral music stopped, and she stumbled a bit on the first half-step, glancing over at them in confusion.

 

They'd all put their instruments down as something else came on, the DJ pressing one headphone to his ear as he nodded at her, shooting her a wink.

 

Hermione sucked in a breath as the first jazzy notes came on, her wide eyes flying back to Draco as she recognized the song. She took a step back from him, freezing a bit. He just smiled at her, softly, and definitely very self-satisfied. “I told you I'd figure it out,” he murmured, as the words began.

 

“ _You're just too good to be true... Can't take my eyes off of you..._ ”

 

Stunned, she pressed her hand to her throat, glancing around the perimeter of the dance floor as she felt her face heat spectacularly. Harry was smiling, and Ginny was, too, offering Hermione a shrug. Even Ron and Susan didn't look surprised, nor did her parents – nor Draco's. Lucius was obviously listening to the words, curious, and Narcissa just gestured at them to _start dancing_.

 

“How?” she whispered.

 

He held his hand out to her, patiently waiting for her to come back into his arms. “Harry showed me the tape,” he explained, softly.

 

She pressed her hand to her mouth, feeling tears sting her eyes. Her parents' wedding tape took place in the seventies, and Andy Williams' rendition of _Can't Take My Eyes Off You_ was what her parents had danced _their_ first dance to. The fact that she'd always dreamed as a little girl to dance to the same song was something she'd only _ever_ told Harry. As she blinked away the sting of tears, she grit out, “ _Damn_ you, Draco Malfoy.”

 

“I told you I'd get you,” he reminded her, his smile widening a bit. He extended his hand a little further. “Also, this is starting to get _very_ awkward. Please dance with me?”

 

She laughed, wetly, and took his hand, letting him pull her into the first few steps, slow at first as she tried to settle herself. Surprisingly, the dance went well with the song, especially the chorus, and he even incorporated the odd spin, grinning as she laughed. The sudden urge to cry had faded away – thankfully _without_ actually resulting in mascara streaking down her face – although she was still slightly red-faced from her earlier surprise.

 

He threw her into a spin as Andy Williams pleaded with some mystery woman to ' _let me love you, baby, let me love you_ ' – and as he drew the last note out, Draco slowed, pulling her back into his arms and closer than before, his cheek pressed to her temple. He stepped back into proper formation as soon as the next verse started, though.

 

Although both of them were vaguely aware that they still had an audience, they danced with their eyes locked on each other, both of them smiling painfully wide, their eyes dancing with some private amusement.

 

Lucius cocked his head as the chorus rang in. “It's not very subtle,” he murmured to his wife, referring to the lyrics.

 

“That's the charm,” she informed him, dryly. “Subtlety is our language, Lucius. It's rather wasted on the younger generations. All of their emotions are so loud and urgent, as you know.”

 

“We were like that, once.”

 

She smiled at him. “Wasn't it just the worst?” she teased, gently. At his delicate snort, she bit back a laugh, smoothing her hand over his forearm. Much like Draco, they didn't engage in much public displays of affection, and that one small gesture earned his rapt attention.

 

“I'm requesting your hand for the second dance,” he informed her. “I assume your hostessing duties can fall to another for that five minute period.”

 

Her smile turned a little coy. “I'll fit you in.”

 

He stifled a smile of his own, shooting her a sharp look as he tried to determine whether she'd meant to make it sound quite _like that_. Probably. “Your accommodation means the world to me,” he drawled, in a low, promising tone.

 

The song faded away, and Hermione and Draco _barely_ came to a stop before Hermione threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so soundly that some of the elder Slytherin attendees gasped at the impropriety of it, some of them actually _literally_ clutching their pearls. At first he smiled into it, but soon he was kissing her back, and it took the DJ clearing his throat _loudly_ into his amplification charm to finally get them to separate.

 

They did so, with red faces, and the DJ said, “Let's save that for the honeymoon, shall we? In the meantime, let's get this party started! Maestro, _hit it_!” The orchestra exploded into song, and everyone swarmed the dance floor.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Her father claimed her next dance, and Harry and Ron the third and fourth. After Ron's ended, she clung to him as he stepped away from her, and grit out: “Do _not_ release me until we are off this dancefloor. I need a drink.”

 

Laughing softly, he glanced around at the men shooting Hermione glances, wanting to step in, and let her cling to his arm as he walked back into the crowd. They still had to brave about forty congratulations and greetings, though, before they made it to the bar. “You should have seen your _face_ when that song came on,” Ron crowed, when they were finally a bit away from everyone. “I hope the photographer got a good shot of it.”

 

“You _knew_?” she demanded. “You can't keep a secret. How'd you not tell me?”

 

“By successfully avoiding you for the past two weeks,” he admitted, with a grimace. “Although, in my defense, I don't think you even _noticed,_ all off in La-La Land with your ferret lover. And may I add, how _could you_ not notice that we've not even spoken a word to each other in _two weeks_?”

 

Astonished, she tried to think back to when she'd last talked to him. He was right; it had been a few weeks ago. At his _own wedding_ , hadn't it? He'd been gone on a honeymoon for that first week, and then for the next two, she talked to Susan _several_ times but had only seen Ron at that one dinner – and he was right, he'd barely even _looked_ at her. In her defense, she'd been pretty wrapped up with tending to Albus and chatting with Luna. “Oh, God, Ron, I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I just-- with the wedding, I've just been-- all over the place.”

 

“I know,” he said, squeezing her hand a bit. He grinned, that quick flash of an easy smile – so typically Weasley in nature – and turned to the bartender to get her some champagne. “And I can see why. _Look_ at this place.” He turned to glance over the impressive, ostentatious decorations. “You think maybe they're compensating for something?”

 

She snorted, taking the glass of champagne gratefully when it was presented. “That would explain a lot, actually, wouldn't it? Voldemort saw some Muggle with a bigger penis and was just like, 'Well, that's it. We're exterminating every last one of them.'”

 

A Jack & Coke appeared, and Ron grabbed it, turning away from the bar with a groaning laugh. “And so the Death Eaters were on board, then?”

 

“Well, some of them. The smarter, shorter-penised ones, for sure,” she said, gravely. “The others probably _fell_ for that 'Muggles are basically animals' schtick.” She saw Ron examining Lucius with narrowed eyes, and elbowed him. “Are you imagining his _penis,_ right now?”

 

He turned bright red, his freckles turning nearly neon with it. “No!” he spluttered. “Hermione, that's disgusting.”

 

“It's not, you know,” she said, her eyes going half-lidded. “Short.”

 

He made an impressive gagging noise, nearly spitting up the sip of his drink he'd just taken. After swallowing with some difficulty, he cast her a disgusted look. “ _Why_ do you know what Lucius Malfoy's _thingy_ looks like?”

 

“Oh, I don't. I'm just assuming. Like father, like son, and all,” she said, with a careless shrug, grimly enjoying the way Ron groaned dramatically.

 

“Don't! _Why_?” he demanded, recoiling from her.

 

“I just wanted to satisfy your _obvious_ curiosity,” she cooed, patting his arm condescendingly.

 

He angrily shrugged her hand off and glared at her. “I'm going to go back to avoiding you. I just remembered how _peaceful_ and _nice_ that was,” he announced. “No nagging, no learning about boring _things_ I hate, and _just_ when I'm thinking, 'Cor, I really miss that girl! I don't think I can make it all the way through the wedding,' you go and do _this_. This _betrayal_ that will echo through our friendship throughout our lifetimes.”

 

“I _really_ think you missed your calling as a stage actor,” she said, thoughtfully.

 

“ _Betrayal_.”

 

“You would have been a _brilliant_ MacBeth,” she sighed, her eyes going unfocused as she imagined it. He stared at her for a moment, lips pressed together in distaste, and then reached up and flicked her on the forehead. Hermione reeled back, clutching at the spot. “Ow! _Ron_. We're at my _wedding._ ”

 

“Yeah, go ahead and keep using it like a magic word that gets you a free pass to do whatever, that's fine,” he muttered, taking another draw from his glass.

 

She laughed, rubbing at her forehead. Draco approached from the dance floor, eying them both curiously. “Did I miss something fun?” he asked. Hermione shook her head, and Ron nodded his, and Draco's eyes flicked between them and narrowed a bit, pointing at Hermione's face. “Did you hit my wife in the forehead?”

 

“Yes,” Ron admitted, bluntly. He pointed between the two of them. “And your _pratness_ is spreading.”

 

Draco smiled at her. “Oh, _luv_. I'm _so_ proud,” he said, in a sweet tone that Draco _never, ever_ naturally used. He held his arms out as if to invite her into a hug, his expression practically glowing with delight.

 

Ron groaned in frustration, his head tilting back so he could blast it straight into the sky. “You are both so perfect for each other that it just makes me _sick_ ,” he declared. “I'm going to throw up on one of the ice sculptures. _Probably_ the unicorn, I feel like that's the crowd favorite.”

 

“Narcissa will _kill you_ if you so much as _look_ at one of her ice sculptures funny,” Hermione warned him, sobering instantly.

 

Draco had sobered, too. “That's true. Don't even let her hear you joke about that. She'll put you in a broom closet until the whole thing's over. That's an _actual thing_ that she has done before.”

 

“I really never thought I'd ever get to meet a family crazier than mine,” Ron muttered. “Speaking of, I'm going to find Ginny, because she owes me a Galleon.” He was looking around for a flash of red hair.

 

Hermione promptly made an indignant noise, which drew a confused look from her husband. “Ronald Weasley, were you _betting_ on whether or not I'd cry, today?”

 

Ron stared at her, paling. He quickly took a step back, well out of reach. “No,” he muttered, glancing at her hands nervously. She took a threatening step towards him, and he skittered away. “It was George's idea! George started it! Where's her wand?” he demanded of Draco, who was just staring at him as if he'd grown a third head.

 

She pulled it out of her sleeve, her lips pursed, and Ron turned and _sprinted_ away, quickly weaving back into the crowd for protection.

 

Grumbling, she tucked it back into her sleeve, glaring in the direction Ron had bolted. Draco slowly panned his gaze from the disappearing mop of red hair back to his wife, and murmured, “And you think Ginny's the only one striking cold fear into everyone's hearts? By the by, I don't think it's a good idea to have guests at your wedding running around in open terror. There's a _Prophet_ reporter here.”

 

“Tell them to stop being _annoying_ , then. Oh, and also,” she said, and deliberately stepped on his foot. He winced a bit, yanking it out from underneath her shoe. “What was all that nonsense about making me cry at the _vows_?”

 

“I _had_ to say that, to distract you from the song plan,” he defended. He wiped the toe of his shoe in the grass, trying to put some shine back onto it. When he looked back up at her, he smirked. “Also, when are you going to learn that it's _never_ over and you should _never_ put your guard down?”

 

“I'm going to smack you into a thousand tiny little pieces.”

 

He just grinned, unrepentant. “You got it under control before you ruined your make-up,” he commended. “That was well done. I was _very_ proud of you.”

 

“You're the worst husband I've ever had,” she huffed, and his grin widened.

 

He grabbed her free hand. “Call me your husband, again. I like that,” he said, softly. Hermione opened her mouth, and then flushed suddenly, shaking her head, and he chuckled. “My wife,” he said, instead. “Once, she was the _most courageous_ \--”

 

“Al _right_. My husband, Draco Malfoy, is _insufferable_ ,” she enunciated, her cheeks still pink.

 

“And my wife, Hermione _Malfoy_ , is about as adorable as two kittens trying to fit into same coffee mug,” he returned. At her hesitation, he said, “Ah, you didn't even think about the name, yet, did you? I already ordered new stationary for your desk at work. And a new nameplate.”

 

“My cubicle doesn't have a nameplate.”

 

“Correction: Your cubicle _didn't previously_ have a nameplate. It has one, now,” he informed her, his tone matter-of-fact. “And it's gold-plated. And it will be hanging on your cubicle the entire time we're in Sicily.”

 

Her jaw dropped. “ _Draco_! Please tell me you're lying.”

 

“I really _never_ thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth,” he murmured, blinking, his gaze going a little vacant. “I'm not sure if I like it, or if I think it's terribly frightening and unnatural. Do you _want_ me to be lying, Hermione?”

 

She put her hands on her hips. “I _want_ for there to not be a gaudy gold _nameplate_ on my _cubicle_.”

 

Draco nodded. “Well, you're in luck. This time, you do get what you want,” he said, seriously, and she relaxed a smidgen, her hands falling from her hips as she started to smile. “Because it's not gaudy, at all. In fact, it's _very_ classy and chic. I better go rescue Theo from Ms. Zabini,” he suddenly said, glancing at the dancefloor. “She's had him for the last three dances and he's starting to look a little desperate.”

 

He strode off before she could demand that he take the nameplate down, and she stared at his back, her eyes narrowing. She was just going to ask Harry to pop in early on Monday and grab it before anyone saw the stupid thing.

 

Her gaze panned past Draco to the dancefloor. Theo looked perfectly polite as he danced with the elder woman – a woman who was still as stunningly beautiful as she'd likely been two decades prior – and it wasn't until she really stared at him that she realized how strained his expression was. Blaise's mother leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his chest and smiling coyly up at him, and his answering smile was tight and insincere.

 

Draco's idea of a rescue plan was to cut in and start dancing with her, instead. She felt her eyes become jealous little slits for a second before she reminded herself that he was just doing Theo a favor. Even if his maneuver left _much_ to be desired.

 

Moving slowly, she cut across Theo's path nonchalantly as he escaped the dancefloor, smiling at him. “What's wrong, Theo? Weren't you having fun?”

 

He shot her a testy look, and she started to laugh when she realized she'd never seen him look openly irritated, before. She held out her half-full glass of champagne, and he hesitated before taking it, draining it quickly. “That woman is half-octopus,” he muttered. “No matter where you turn, there's another arm. With suction.”

 

She set the empty glass on the nearest flat surface, knowing there was staff moving around to pick it up, and started walking with him back to the bar. “You know, I never asked before: Are you seeing anyone, back in Turkey?”

 

He hesitated. “No,” he finally said.

 

“You like someone, though.” He was silent, and she persisted, “Someone in your classes, maybe?”

 

“Is this relevant?” he asked, cocking his head at her. His eyebrows flickered up just barely. He ordered two more glasses of champagne, avoiding her searching eyes expertly. “Has the wedding got you all in the romantic mindset? Do you feel the need to start matchmaking so everyone else can feel the _glow_ of your mutual adoration?”

 

“Don't deflect,” she ordered, and grabbed both glasses of champagne, holding his hostage. “Is it a Muggle?”

 

“It's rather my business,” he told her, managing to catch the glass before she could yank it away. He deftly plucked it from her grasping fingers. “And I like you, so I won't end this conversation rudely, but I've never responded _kindly_ to people poking around in my business.”

 

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “I like you, too,” she returned. “So I'll _try_ to refrain. But not satisfying my curiosity has always ended up disastrously for everyone that tried to keep a secret from me.”

 

“Direct your curiosity towards something that matters,” he advised her.

 

Hermione fell silent for a long moment, and then asked, “Is he already in a relationship?”

 

Theo looked briefly stricken before he tucked the expression away, and took a stiff sip of his champagne. “Congratulations on your nuptials,” he said, shortly, and turned away, striding off before she could formulate a response.

 

She watched him go, sighing quietly. That hadn't really gone the way she'd thought it would.

 

But Theo had already pointed out that she didn't really know him that well, hadn't he? Or did she have such an absurdly high opinion of herself that she thought otherwise? Sometimes, she didn't really know.

 

Trying to turn her thoughts back to a happy place, she took a sip of her champagne, and rejoined the party. Faking the smile was only hard for the first couple of seconds, thankfully; no matter how badly she'd blundered that conversation with Theo, she was still at her wedding, and she was still quite chuffed with the rest of the situation.

 

She'd try and apologize later.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“May I request the next dance?”

 

She looked up from her conversation with Luna, and felt the weirdest, instinctive urge to smile when she saw her father-in-law. Stifling it for the most part, she said, “What will you do if it's a Muggle song?”

 

“I don't think it's possible for you to laugh harder than you did when I was dancing a dance I knew the steps to, already,” he pointed out, in a dry tone.

 

Grinning, she gave Luna her glass and tucked her hand into the crook of Lucius' elbow, letting him lead her to the dance floor. The current song was orchestral, and was something that all the Slytherin attendees had crowded the floor for. She even saw Pansy – she'd shown up late, and, as Theo predicted, in a white dress that looked like it had been painted on and was garnished with albino peacock feathers. As sour as the girl had looked when she arrived, though, she seemed to be having fun dancing with Blaise.

 

Following her gaze, Lucius watched Pansy impassively for a moment. “I believe Narcissa intends to excommunicate her from the Manor for arriving in that dress,” he said, thoughtfully. “She and Draco had quite an intense conversation over it.”

 

“He's a loyal friend. He would have been a _great_ Hufflepuff,” she said, and smiled prettily up at him when he leveled a rather impressive glare at her.

 

“It is your wedding,” he said, quietly but firmly. “And for that reason alone, I will allow those words to pass from your lips without redress. _Should you ever feel the need to speak them again_ , please be prepared to draw your wand.”

 

“Did the hat ever try to convince you to go into a different house?” Hermione asked, when her laughter had died away.

 

“I was always bound for Slytherin.”

 

“That's not what I asked,” she groaned. Lucius was such a _headache_.

 

“I'm aware.”

 

The song ended, and he led her onto the dancefloor, wincing only slightly when the DJ put on _YMCA_. “Uh oh,” she said, smugly, immediately starting to step from side to side in time with the beat. “Here. No. Step back and forth, okay. Once you can do that in time with the beat, you can try and get fancy with your hands,” she advised, still laughing softly.

 

“Muggles dance like nonsense,” he muttered, so low she could barely even hear him over the pulsing beat of the music. However, he managed to find the beat fairly easily, and was glancing around the room and somewhat copying the shoulder movements.

 

She grinned at him, and then threw her hands up for the _Y_ , along with everyone else.

 

Startled, Lucius almost came to a stop, and then looked around in utter consternation. “What is this?” he demanded, as she formed the M, C, and A.

 

“YMCA,” she responded. “You make the letters with your arms. See, look. _Y! M! C! A!_ It's fun to stay at the Y, M, C, A-heyyy,” she sang, along with everyone else. Lucius looked absolutely _pained_ as he formed the motions half-heartedly, and she nearly choked on her laughter as she watched him. “Oh, you look absolutely wretched.”

 

“What is the 'YMCA'?” he asked, determined not to talk about how ridiculous he looked.

 

“Young Men's Christian Association,” she giggled. “It's sort of like... an organization for young men to achieve healthy minds, spirits, and bodies, or something. It actually started in London.” She began to throw her hands up to form the letters as she spoke, and watched with glee as Lucius did the same.

 

“And I presume that it is 'fun' to stay there,” he said, in reference to the lyrics.

 

“I wouldn't know,” she said, with a shrug. “But if this song is _any_ indication, it is. Of course, the point of the song is that if you're down on your luck, you can seek some refuge at your local YMCA. Like, if you're homeless, say.”

 

“It sounds unhygienic,” he decided, lips thinning a bit in disapproval.

 

Chuckling, she said, “I'm not sure if they do that, anymore. This song came out in the 70s.”

 

“And this is the dance they always do for it?” he asked, glancing around as the entire crowd – even people not on the dance floor – began to throw their hands up to form the letters of the song. She nodded, and he shook his head gently in further disapproval, and she thought she heard him mutter ' _utter nonsense'_ under his breath.

 

The song finally faded out, and she grinned at him. “You did very well.”

 

He tugged on his waistcoat, as it had ridden up when he was forming the letters over his head, and said, “I will never again make the mistake of entering the dancefloor without knowing what song will be my accompaniment.”

 

“Does that mean you're going to start allowing Muggle music at your parties?” she asked, keenly.

 

“It does not,” he said, promptly and pointedly. He started to lead her from the dancefloor, but when Draco approached, he passed her hand to his son, instead.

 

Draco was doing his best to keep a straight face. “Nice moves.”

 

Lucius shot him a narrow look. “You have access to our Gringott's vault on my say-so alone. Endeavor never to let that little fact escape you, again,” he said, flatly, turning away with a sniff and heading back into the crowd.

 

“I like every single thing that has happened, today,” Draco said, his grin returning full-force as soon as Lucius was out of sight.

 

“Would you say it's the best day of your life?” she teased, drawing him back out onto the dancefloor as _Hey Ya!_ by Outkast began to play. Every Muggle-born in the audience suddenly pushed rudely past everyone else to crowd the dancefloor, all of them chattering excitedly.

 

To her surprise, he actually nodded. “So far.”

 


	46. Sicily Is For Lovers

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Six: Sicily Is For Lovers**

 

…

 

As she'd rather suspected, the reception dragged on far too long. It was still going strong at eight that night, a full six hours after the ceremony had ended. Just about everyone was becoming too drunk to function, and she couldn't imagine that _any_ of them were going to make it into work tomorrow. She cast around for Draco, who was talking to Pansy and Theo, and tried to discern if he possibly felt as tired as she did.

 

She thought maybe he did. He was a little sluggish to respond, his smiles coming a little weak around the corners. Hermione made the executive decision to leave before the party sucked their souls dry.

 

Maneuvering around the party, she said her goodbyes to her friends and family – ordering Harry to remove the nameplate from her cubicle the next day _before_ anyone else was in, giving George a stern telling-off for making so many stupid bets about her personal life (which he pretended to take seriously), and finally hugging her dad for what felt like ten minutes. Rose was still weepy, and kept hugging Hermione over and over when she tried to leave, the endless supply of champagne rendering her into an emotional mess.

 

She finally managed to squeeze away after David gave his wife her third helping of cake, distracting her long enough for Hermione to weave her way over to Ginny and Ron, who were leaning against each other on one of the benches.

 

“I'm heading off, soon,” she said, when she reached them. “I wanted to say a quick bye.”

 

Ginny sighed happily. “Oh, that's good. Need to keep your strength up for all the Italian shaggin',” she said, and giggled drunkenly when she inadvertently rhymed. “Hope he's not too deep in his cups. Got that ol'... ol' whiskey willy.”

 

“That's an old wives' tale,” Ron scoffed, one of his eyes pinched closed. Hermione had no idea what happened to it. “That doesn't really happen.”

 

“According to Susan, it does,” Ginny said, smugly.

 

“She didn't say that!” Ron said, hotly, shrugging his sister off his shoulder. “She'd never-- that never _happened_. Yanno, I'm not all too mature to give you a good charlie horse, you little-- you little _teacup_.”

 

Ginny shook her head. “S'not an insult,” she informed him. “S'just a word.”

 

“'S a good insult,” he muttered, taking another swig of his drink.

 

Hermione stared at them. “ _Neither_ of you Apparate anywhere, tonight,” she told them, crisply. “Where are your wands? Give them to me.”

 

Ron staggered to his feet, declaring loudly: “ _I can Apparate_ with, with-- with both eyes closed and my wand right up my _arse_!” He looked so insufferably proud of his stupid statement once it was out, grinning at her.

 

“How will that work?” Ginny whispered, her eyes widening a bit.

 

Ron blinked, and then said, “I'll just-- you know.” He wriggled his butt a bit. “Up and over, swish and flick.”

 

“Oh, dear God,” Hermione whispered, rolling her eyes as she turned to try and find Harry in the crowd. Catching his eyes, she waved him over, forcing him to end his conversation with a woman that looked _impossibly_ old that was wearing about three tons of jewelry. As he headed over, she said, “Weren't you watching how much they were drinking? They're absolutely pissed.”

 

Harry looked between his wife and Ron, who was still trying to perfect the butt-wiggle version of the wand movements to Apparate. “I only have to watch _Ginny_ ,” he said, defensively. “ _That one_ is _Susan's_ problem.” He pointed at Ron, who was still muttering, _swish-and-flick, swish-and-flick._

 

“You're not going up high enough on the first swish,” Ginny observed, staring at Ron's butt. “Here, you've gotta--” She stumbled to her feet and began trying to do the move, herself.

 

“ _Ooo_ kay,” Harry sing-songed, stepping forward to put his arm around Ginny's shoulder. “Time to find James and Albus. Come on.” His wife laughed uproariously at nothing as she leaned into him, making him stumble a bit as he led her away to find Molly Weasley, who had taken custody of a napping Albus about an hour earlier. He glanced back at Hermione over Ginny's shoulder, and ordered: “Have _fun._ Don't worry about that nameplate. Get a tan.”

 

“Get _Malfoy_ a tan,” Ron scoffed, and blew air out between his closed lips, spewing spittle everywhere.

 

Hermione recoiled from him, lifting her arm to protect her face. “Where's your wand, Ron?” she huffed, annoyed, and began digging in his pockets and patting down his jacket.

 

“'Cause he's-- he's white as... white as _Myrtle_ ,” he continued, oblivious to the pat-down he was receiving. She found the wand in his inner breast pocket and pulled it out, as he continued. “He's all like-- wehh, wehhh,” he vocalized, flapping his arms weakly. When Hermione just stared at him, he grinned crookedly at her. “I'm a jellyfish.”

 

“Wow,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “Let's go find Mrs. Jellyfish, shall we?” She tucked his wand into her other sleeve, and hauled his arm over her shoulder.

 

“S'a good plan. I'll show that, that Ginny what a _whiskey willy_ I am,” he slurred.

 

“Your breath is absolutely atrocious,” Hermione muttered. “For Susan's sake, I might sneak into Madame Pomfrey's stores and give you some Dreamless Sleep.”

 

“Like, like-- remember that time,” he said, growing excited. He was still breathing _right into her face_ as he spoke. “Remember that time you, you-- you snuck into Snape's supplies, so you could make that polyjuice in second year? And we turned into Crabbe and Goyle and followed Malfoy around?” He started to cackle with glee.

 

“What was that?” came Draco's smooth, cultured voice from behind them.

 

Hermione groaned. “Oh, not _now,_ ” she sighed. “Help me get him to Susan before I stupefy him, _please._ ” She awkwardly turned Ron around a bit to face her husband.

 

“That's not much of an incentive,” he admitted, squinting apologetically.

 

She grit her teeth. “Help me get him to Susan before I stupefy _you_ ,” she amended, flatly.

 

He sighed, pulling Ron's arm off of her and taking the brunt of the lanky redhead's weight. “I have a _lot of questions_ about what he just said, by the way,” he added, and then his nose wrinkled when he caught a whiff of Ron's breath. Tilting his head away from the stench, he began leading Ron in a drunken stumble across the lawn.

 

“Later,” she promised, craning her head around to look for Susan.

 

They eventually found her, laughing with Hannah Abbott at something Neville was saying. She didn't look too sober, herself, but she wasn't fall-all-over-herself drunk, so that was something. Since Neville and Hannah actually looked the most sober, Hermione turned to them as Draco dumped Ron on the bench next to his wife.

 

“Can you make sure this idiot gets home alright?” she sighed, pulling out Ron's wand. “I don't want him Apparating in this state, he's going to Splinch himself into a thousand pieces.”

 

Neville took the wand with a wry grin. “Sure,” he promised. He lifted his glass, which was filled with something sparkling and brown. “Alcohol-free apple cider. I have class early tomorrow,” he explained. “I've got to get Hannah back to London in one piece, too, so it won't be any trouble to make sure the other two make it.”

 

“Thank you,” she said, warmly, giving him another hug. “Harry's probably going to head out, soon, too.”

 

He nodded. “Have fun on your honeymoon,” he added. “You leaving?”

 

“Yes,” Hermione chuckled. “As fun as it's been, spending six hours in these towering shoes and saying thank-you over and over to about a thousand drunks, I think I'm finally ready to go relax somewhere.”

 

“I knew it,” Draco muttered, smugly.

 

Ignoring him thoroughly, Hermione gave her four friends another lingering hug each, and waved a bit as she headed for the castle to grab her things. Draco fell into step beside her. “Did you need to say goodbye to anyone?” she asked him, curiously.

 

“I've been saying goodbye for the last _three hours_ , waiting for you to come to your senses,” he scoffed.

 

She laughed. “Why didn't you just say something!”

 

“I didn't want to rush you. You _did_ look like you were having fun, for some of it,” he said, wryly. “And it's not like getting married is an every-day occurrence.”

 

“I _am_ going to miss having a good excuse to wear something as openly ridiculous as this dress,” she sighed, wistfully. “ _However_ , I'm also really eager to stop having my feet feel like they're going to fall off and trying to ignore the fact that my back is so itchy I've been holding in a frustrated scream for the better part of two hours.”

 

Chuckling, he pressed his fingers against the fabric. “Where? Here?” he asked, scratching between her shoulder blades.

 

She groaned a bit in pure bliss, halting in her steps. “Down a bit.” He moved his hand, and she arched her back into the sensation like a cat. “God, yes,” she breathed, eyes closing. “You are an angel.”

 

“I want you to remember that, the next time I annoy you.”

 

“I've already forgotten what I just said,” she murmured, smiling a bit. He took his hand away, and she whined, stomping her foot a little. “I'm just _kidding_.”

 

Laughing, he resumed his task. “The sooner we get downstairs, the sooner we can get the whole thing off,” he reminded her. At her sharp, curious look, he added, “I had the elves bring your stuff down to my room. I'm not walking up all those stairs, again. I had _seven years_ of those stairs. I'm done.”

 

“Baby,” she chided, but let him lead her down into the dungeons without much else in the way of commentary.

 

As usual, it was chilly, and after the warm night outside, she wasn't really prepared for it.

 

“How did you _sleep_ down here?” she wondered, as he let her into the Slytherin common room. She looked around with avid interest; unlike Ron and Harry, she didn't get a chance to sneak in back in second year. She was almost disappointed to realize that it really looked an awful lot like the Gryffindor common room, save the color scheme; the windows provided an eerie, greenish glow that looked almost sickly. For some reason, she thought there'd be a _lot_ more leather.

 

Draco shrugged, heading for a staircase towards the back that led _down_ , deeper into the bowels of the castle. “If you're referring to the temperature, I actually find it quite comfortable.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes as she followed him down, eying the tapestries on the wall curiously. It was too dim to really make out what they were depicting, but they looked old and Celtic. She could dimly see the knots at the corners.

 

The stairs finally flattened out into a series of branching hallways, with Draco navigated with ease. Hermione quickened her pace to keep up; she was sure the boys dormitories weren't so big as to be easy to get lost in, but for some reason the nature of the corridors made the place seem like an insurmountable labyrinth, and she was a little worried that if she got separated, she might end up wandering around Hogwarts' cellars forever.

 

He turned into a room, and once again, she was positively underwhelmed by how similar it looked to the ones up in Gryffindor tower. The same four-poster beds. The same general furniture. The only thing that changed was the colors on the fabrics.

 

Her baggage was stacked up by his at the foot of what was, presumably, his bed. “Do we just shrink it, or did you have forty house elves coming along with-- Ah!” she gasped, recoiling from the window as a huge, monolithic shape soared by. Hermione stared at it, her brow furrowing, and then she demanded, “Is that the _squid_?”

 

He glanced up from his own luggage, shooting the window an unconcerned, dismissive look. “Probably. And yes, we'll shrink. Do you really need all this?”

 

Staring at the window still as the black shape faded away, she said, absently: “I don't know what the weather'll be like.”

 

She could almost _feel_ the force with which he rolled his eyes, although she didn't look at him and he didn't respond, merely started shrinking it all. He'd brought a rather standard trunk, and if he thought her Muggle luggage was odd, he didn't say so. When she finally looked back at him, he'd neatly shrunk it all and was stuffing it into his pockets. Then, she noticed the flower sitting on his bed. It was one of the silver ones in her hair, she realized – or rather, it would have been, had the hairdresser had it to put in.

 

It looked out of place and she promptly figured it was the Portkey. “Is that it?” she asked, pointing at it.

 

Draco looked at the flower on the bed, and smiled. Leaning over, he reached down to pick it up with nimble fingers, and tucked the flower away into some secret pocket of his clothes. “No,” he said, simply. Before she could ask what the heck he was doing keeping a stupid flower, he nodded his chin towards one of the bookshelves.

 

On the middle shelf, in front of all the books, was a tube of sunblock. Hermione took one look at it and started laughing. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

 

“I found one that smells _nice_ ,” he said, accusingly. “You knew about them all along, didn't you?”

 

Her laughter faded into guilty snickers, and he huffed with annoyance and herded her to the shelf. “This'll land us in the resort lobby. They have a designated area for Portkeys.”

 

“Oh, wait-- Should I take this off?” She looked down at her dress.

 

“No, because when _I_ take it off, I'm going to shag you against the nearest available surface, and I would like that to be in Sicily and not the Slytherin dormitories,” he said, his hand hovering over the sunblock. He paused. “Although, that would check the box on a fantasy of mine...”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, and said, “In your dreams.” She clasped her hand over his fingers as she grasped the sunblock, forcing it to activate.

 

She'd never get used to the feeling of being Portkeyed. She hated it, generally preferring to Apparate everywhere (and if that wasn't available, take some sort of land-borne transportation, like a train). As usual, when she landed, she stumbled and nearly bowled over face-first before she felt Draco's hands clamp around her shoulders, hauling her back to her feet.

 

Catching her breath, she glanced around the impressive lobby and gasped, “How do you not fall over?”

 

“Years of practice,” he murmured, glancing around, himself.

 

The lobby seemed to have a chosen aesthetic of Pre-Depression Era Grandeur, with crystal chandeliers and some of the most ornate rugs she'd _ever_ seen covering a marble floor. “Do your parents own this resort, or did they just steal every idea they liked from it?” she asked, suspiciously.

 

“This may surprise you, but my parents' aesthetic is actually very modern and chic, by wizarding standards.” He was headed up to the front desk, and she followed, earning some stares in her dress. She flushed and did her best to ignore them, lifting her chin as she came to a stop at his side. The clerk smiled at them both, and wished them a good evening, but there was no hint of recognition in his eyes. She figured the Malfoy's wealth and power had to stop _somewhere_.

 

She was wrong, though. As soon as Draco gave their names, the clerk's eyes _lit up_ , and he suddenly became almost overbearingly effusive as he welcomed them to the hotel, assuring them both that their room was _fully_ stocked with all the essentials (what did _that_ mean?) and if they had _any_ issues, to _please_ come down and talk to him.

 

Used to this treatment, Draco just nodded and smiled politely as the key – just the one, she realized, and an old skeleton one, at that – was handed over. He turned towards the elevators without so much as a goodbye.

 

“Um-- thank you,” Hermione murmured to the man, before turning to follow her husband. “Your family is like a bunch of money celebrities. I'll never understand it.”

 

“People like money,” he reminded her, stepping into the elevator. He grasped her hand when she followed him, hitting the button for the proper floor with his other one. When she gave him a quizzical look, he bounced his eyebrows a bit and kissed her knuckles.

 

She let her eyelids grow heavy, giving him an unimpressed look. “Oh, am I meant to be swooning?”

 

“Be coy all you want, I _know_ I put butterflies in your stomach,” he said, utterly assured of his sex appeal. He didn't let her hand go, but dropped it from his mouth, letting their clasped fingers hang between them.

 

“If you didn't have your ego, would your body just deflate like a balloon?”

 

He shrugged, frowning in consideration. “The world may never know.” The elevator doors opened, and he led her down a hallway that had a very similar appearance to the lobby. They walked all the way to the end, and she noticed that there wasn't a single door within about forty feet of theirs. Which meant, of course, that they had a ridiculously large suite.

 

Knowing that didn't prepare her for when he opened it, though.

 

Jaw dropping, she stepped into the middle of the central room, which was larger than her _entire flat_. An aquarium formed one entire wall, with various tropical fish populating it. The balcony could be reached by no less than _three_ French doors, and it extended the entire length of the suite. There was a dining room, a seating area, and even a kitchen (although what anyone with this kind of money would do with the kitchen, she had no idea). There was also another seating area which had a wizarding chess board waiting between two recliners in front of a massive fireplace.

 

A spiral staircase led up to a second floor, where she presumed the bedroom was.

 

Most notably, the entire room was decked out in about a _thousand_ candles, which provided the only light. Rose petals were scattered all over the floor, although they seemed to concentrate in a path that led to the base of the staircase.

 

“Good. God,” she intoned. “How many Galleons a night is this place?”

 

“We are _not_ talking about money on our honeymoon.” He put a hand to the small of her back, walking her along the rose trail. “You can resume gaping tomorrow.”

 

“You are so impatient,” she observed, although she grabbed the front of her dress to save it from her shoes as she dutifully marched up the stairs. Her lack of resistance had little to do with the impending sex, though, and a little more to do with the fact that she was dying of curiosity as to what the bedroom actually looked like.

 

The rose trail resumed from the top of the stairs to the bed, which was in a massive, open loft-style space. The bed itself was larger than any king-sized one she'd ever seen.

 

Beyond the bed, though, was a door that opened up into an absolutely _massive_ bathroom. There was already water in the tub, and more rose petals (there are _other flowers_ , Draco) floated in the water. Candles, of course, were lit all over the place.

 

But what had her attention was the shower.

 

Gasping, she approached the glass, staring at it in awe. “Oh my _God_ , is this one of those dual shower-saunas?” she demanded.

 

Draco was staring at her incredulously as she turned to grin excitedly at him. “ _That's_ what has your attention? The shower,” he repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Out of everything, _that's_ the most impressive thing in this suite. I'm just making sure. I want to be _sure_ I understand this.”

 

“It _is_ ,” she shrieked, ignoring him. “Look at the little _dial_ , it turns on _steam_!”

 

She saw him throw his hands up from the corners of her eyes, turning away from the bathroom door. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

 

“You can adjust the _heat of the steam_ , Draco!”

 

“I am _perfectly aware_ , thank you,” he snapped back. “Will you stop playing with the stupid thing and come out here before I drink myself into a stupor?”

 

Hermione cast the sauna dial a longing look, and reluctantly tore herself away from it to re-enter the bedroom. “You have to admit that it's pretty neat,” she said, smiling when she saw him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, the jacket of his suit already draped over a nearby chair. He was only in his shirt and waistcoat as he propped an ankle up on his knee, untying his shoes and giving her a baleful look.

 

“It's just a bloody shower,” he huffed, annoyed. He got one shoe off and worked on the next.

 

Her smile widened as she approached him, slowly. “The candles and the rose petals are lovely, too,” she added, amused. Once his shoes were off, she said, “By the way, I needed help getting this bloody thing _on_ and I'm going to need it, getting it off.”

 

He perked a bit, some of his smirk returning. “That, I can help you with,” he murmured, his voice almost a low purr. He stood, circling around her. She waited for him to start undoing the buttons up her back, but instead he pressed against her, his arm circling around her waist as kissed the base of her neck, where it met her shoulder. His arm drifted up from her waist, crossing over her chest to pin her more surely against him.

 

“I fail to see how this is helping me get this dress off,” she chuckled, leaning her head back against his shoulder.

 

He hummed in agreement, but still made no move to actually undo a button, just shifted his mouth up her neck and lazily kissed at the spot just beneath her ear. “Your hair smells absolutely terrible,” he whispered, and she started laughing.

 

“It's hairspray, to keep it from going everywhere,” she managed, between her bouts of laughter. “I'll have to wash it out.”

 

He pressed a kiss to her jaw, and the hand that wasn't wrapped cross-wise over her chest finally undid the top button of her dress. She fell into a dreamy sort of silence as he worked his fingers down her back, punctuating each removal of a clasped button with a kiss against her neck. When she could feel that it was loose enough, she started to reach up to her shoulders to haul it off, but he stopped her. “No, I get to do _all_ of this. Indulge me, Hermione.”

 

“You're taking _forever_.”

 

“Good things come to those that wait,” he said, crisply.

 

“What is that, the polar opposite of the Malfoy house motto?” He peeled one sleeve over her shoulder, and bit her earlobe in chastisement. She sucked in a breath, swallowing a soft moan.

 

He peeled off the other, and then slowly peeled the dress off of her front, dragging his hands across her chest with a contented little sigh. “Oh, these are fantastic,” he said, happily pawing at them for a few seconds.

 

“Draco.”

 

“Yes, luv?”

 

“Dress,” she reminded him.

 

“Of course, luv.” He pushed the material off of her hips, letting the entire fantastic thing pool on the floor. She moved to step out of it, wishing she'd already taken her heels off, when she was suddenly tipped backwards by his hands on her shoulders.

 

She squealed a bit, and he caught her underneath the knees and back, lifting her bridal-style out of the fabric at her feet. “You nearly gave me a _heart attack_.”

 

He dropped her on the bed, where she bounced a bit, and knelt at her feet to undo the straps of her shoes. He didn't reply, just grinned rakishly at her, his hair flopping into his eyes a bit. He had no _right_ , being that handsome. It was really _very_ annoying.

 

Hermione sighed with relief when he got the shoes off – the straps had bitten angry red lines into her feet.

 

Draco kissed her ankles, and then stood rather suddenly, towering over her and kissing her on the mouth, hungrily. He started plucking at her hair, and she realized he was trying to get all the damn flowers out. “Bath,” he suddenly growled, fingering her curls with a faint sneer. “I can't run my fingers through _this_.”

 

“You can't run your fingers through it, _normally_ ,” she reminded him.

 

“Well, I'm not shagging you with a crispy hair helmet on your head,” he scoffed, pulling her up to her feet again. He worked quickly to remove all of the hair flowers, and she worked just as quickly to undo all the buttons on his waistcoat.

 

He'd pushed her into the candlelit bathroom before they were completely naked, and their underwear and his pants ended up somewhere near the sauna-shower on their way to the tub.

 

Draco all but chased her into the tub, not letting her get even remotely settled before he tumbled in after her, his hands _all over her_. She managed to undo the bobby pins keeping her hair in the half-updo as he closed his mouth over her nipple, which she was pretty amazed at herself for – ignoring his mouth there required concentration of Herculean proportions.

 

It was a testimony to just _how much_ hairspray was in her hair that removing the bobbypins did very little to it.

 

“Draco,” she murmured, and he sighed and pulled off of her chest.

 

“Alright, alright,” he said, long-suffering. “Dunk.”

 

She leaned back, reaching up to run her fingers through her stiff locks. Of course, he only lasted about a minute before his mouth was on her again, his hands smoothing up her thigh to--

  
He stopped, and she lifted her head, taking in his utterly confused look with a soft laugh.

 

“I waxed,” she explained. When that didn't seem to clear things up, she said, “You take heated wax, spread it on the hair, and then you yank it all out.”

 

“That sounds painful.”

 

“You have no idea,” she muttered, and jolted a bit when he began exploring the newly-hairless area. “Don't start expecting that, by the way, I don't think I'll _ever_ do it again.”

 

He shook his head a bit. “I certainly didn't have a problem with it, before,” he pointed out. But he was trying to look down at her through the water. “But this is-- well, it's _interesting,_ ” he finally settled on, not really sure what to make of the entire thing. “Muggles do this, then?”

 

“Witches do, too. Some of them.”

 

She could tell he thought that was a little weird, but he seemed to have finally learned some tact, and knew better than to say so between the events of her depilating and his imminent shagging of her. He finally shrugged a bit and went back to kissing her, pushing her against the wall of the tub as his fingers rubbed expertly against her. The lack of hair didn't render him unable to navigate the spots he'd already learned, thankfully.

 

Hermione moaned into his mouth, rolling her hips against his hand needily. When he pulled back, breaking the kiss, she tried to chase his lips a bit, shooting him a desperate look.

 

“Wash your hair,” he ordered, although his fingers didn't stop.

 

Her mouth fell open a bit as he hit the sweet spot, and grimaced. “I can't concentrate while you're _doing that_ ,” she hissed.

 

“How do you know, when you haven't even tried, yet?” he asked, sweetly.

 

“Oh, my God, you're a monster,” she grit out, reaching for the complimentary shampoo and whimpering when he crooked his finger forward inside of her. “Draco!” She was astonished by the whining noise she said his name with, and from the looks on his face, so was he.

 

His grin widened. “Lather up,” he said, and sped his fingers up.

 

She jerked, her thighs trying to press together and stopping at his body. “Bloody hell,” she gasped, and quickly poured a too-generous dollop of shampoo into her hand. She tensed and whimpered again, causing it to slip to the edge of her palm, and she only just barely got it on her head before it fell uselessly into the water. “If I get shampoo in my eyes because of you--”

 

“You think I can make you come before you finish rinsing?”

 

“ _Don't_ you--” It dissolved into a groan as his fingers crooked against her, again, his thumb playing with her clit. She quickly pressed the lather into her hair, her already-aching scalp protesting against the rough treatment, and dipped her head back to rinse. She felt his other arm curl around her back, obviously a little concerned that she might drop into the water and start drowning.

 

She was glad, because a second later, she was gasping and moaning as she came, writhing a bit as her legs clamped around his sides.

 

“You bastard,” she wheezed, when it was over.

 

“That was _fun_ ,” he said, brightly. “Let's race, again. Get more shampoo.”

 

“ _No_ , you idiot. Get your hand out of there so I can finish rinsing in peace,” she ordered, reaching up with lazy arms to try and get the last of the soap out. He did as she asked, although he was grinning stupidly the entire time she finished.

 


	47. Brats & Bad Hair Days

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Brats & Bad Hair Days**

 

…

 

She woke up the next morning with a sticky, bitter taste in her mouth, and realized she'd forgotten to brush her teeth the night before – and after drinking nearly _three_ bottles of fancy, expensive champagne with her new husband. She wasn't entirely sure how many times they shagged, orally or otherwise, but there was a dull ache in the back of her thigh, as if she'd pulled a muscle. What the hell had she been doing to achieve _that_?

 

Draco was pressed against her back, her skin there sticky with the combined heat of them. She hadn't taken off her make-up _or_ dried her hair properly after the bath. She was pretty sure she looked a fright.

 

She _felt_ a fright, if she were being honest with herself.

 

Groaning softly, Hermione started to sit up. It was a testament to how knackered Draco was that he didn't rouse even slightly to fight her, his arm sliding from her waist easily. She moved gingerly, the pain in her thigh flaring up as she moved it, and dug around in her luggage, retrieving her toothbrush and some toothpaste. She then padded into the bathroom to relieve herself and brush the godawful taste out of her mouth.

 

Looking in the mirror made her grimace. Her mascara had pooled beneath her eyes, and her lipstick was half-licked off, lingering only on the outer edges of her lips, where it smeared haplessly into her skin.

 

She wasn't even _prepared_ to deal with her hair, which looked like the mutated offspring of an ugly, cross-eyed little sheep.

 

After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she ran her fingers through her hair a few times to get the worst of the knots out. Hunger drove her to pull it all into a rough, messy ponytail. She'd deal with washing it again a little later in the morning, when Draco wanted to leave for the beach.

 

When she re-emerged into the bedroom, he was awake, lying on his back with one hand behind his head as he gazed, half-lidded, at absolutely nothing. Shifting his eyes to her, he smiled, sleepy and content. She saw that her lipstick had smudged against his lips when the charm had finally worn off, giving the entire area a vaguely pinkish tint. His eyes flicked down her naked body, lingering on her chest for a second before dropping lower.

 

Hermione held up an imperious hand as she moved towards her luggage. “ _Don't_ stare at it.”

 

“Good morning to you, too,” he snickered, sitting up with a soft groan. He watched her as she bent down to start digging around for her clothes, and she felt heat crawl across her face and the back of her neck under the weight of his stare. “You have got the _most fetching_ little dimples above your arse cheeks.”

 

“Quit it, or I'll never be naked in front of you, again,” she threatened, finding a long shirt that had once belonged to Ron. She had no intention of telling Draco _that_ , of course.

 

“Is that a _ratty old t-shirt_?” he demanded. “ _Please_ tell me that Ginny forced you to buy proper lingerie for this week. Actually, you don't have to tell me, because I _already know that she did_ , and I'm a little put out that I haven't gotten to see any of them, yet.”

 

She huffed, pulling the t-shirt on stubbornly. “We were _naked all night_. And I'm not wearing lingerie in the daytime. It's a night-time piece of clothing,” she said, firmly.

 

“I consider the sight of you in that _thing_ to be abuse. You don't even like Quidditch,” he added, squinting at the front of the shirt. It was the logo for the Chudley Cannons. “Allow me to guess: The Weasel bought you that hideous thing for a birthday. And he's awful at guessing your size--” He froze, and his eyes narrowed as he took in the t-shirt with a critical eye.

 

Realizing that he was assessing the size and knowing he'd rapidly come to the (correct) conclusion, Hermione said, “I'm starved. Is there food in here?”

 

“There should be a continental set out on the dining room every morning,” he said, distantly, his eyes still narrowed into suspicious little slits as his eyes roved the t-shirt and then her face, watching how she studiously avoided meeting his gaze. “Hermione--” he began, in a warning tone.

 

“I'm going to see if they've got croissants,” she announced, and quickly trotted down the stairs.

 

“If that's _his shirt--_ ” Draco yelled after her, trailing off when the wild fluff of her ponytail disappeared from view. He glared at the empty staircase and muttered, to himself: “Then I'm going to _shred it_.” However, that seemed like a plan he'd have to enact when she'd next take it off, so he slid out of the bed to use the loo.

 

But rest assured that he was going to make _damn sure_ she was never able to put the bloody thing on, again.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The first thing he wanted to do after breakfast was go see the beach. After washing up and drying her hair properly, she put on her bathing suit and covered it with shorts and a shirt, he handed her the sunblock he'd used as a Portkey the night before. “Use this, and if I see that other stuff leave your bag, I'm going to swap it for your toothpaste,” he promised.

 

She scoffed a bit. “Common pranks, Draco? Channeling your inner Weasley?” she asked, smirking a bit when his eyes narrowed. “I wonder what your _father_ would think about that.”

 

“I wonder what my father would think about your hairless vagina,” he enunciated, and she saw the sharp spike to victory in his eyes when she choked a bit, her face reddening. “Why don't we both send him an owl? See which one he replies to, first.”

 

She chucked the sunscreen at his head. “Don't be _gross_.”

 

He caught it effortlessly, and gently tossed it back to her, looking supremely self-satisfied. “Did I just stumble upon the magic set of words that gets you to do what I want, whenever I want it?” he asked, his eyebrows bouncing slightly.

 

She caught the sunscreen, a little more clumsily than he, and snipped, “No, but you've almost stumbled upon the magic set of words that leads down the road of artificial insemination, and your lonely hand for company – for the next _ten years_.” She uncapped the sunscreen and squeezed a dollop into her palm, gasping softly with faux-surprise when he made a face. “Oh no, did I _stumble upon_ the magic set of words to make you _civilized_? Do you want to inform the presses, or shall I?”

 

Draco mimicked the cadences of her last sentence without actually sounding the words out, possibly the weakest comeback imaginable, and turned away to sulk into the kitchen.

 

Smugly, she finished applying the sunscreen before putting the tube into her messenger bag, which she had charmed much like the little beaded bag she'd carried around in seventh year. This, however, was bigger – so it at least drew less attention when she pulled somewhat larger items out of it, like a book or a couple of beach towels. When he pettily got himself a bottle of water without offering one, she did her best to rampantly _intensify_ the sense of smug superiority radiating off of her.

 

He ignored it as best he could, meandering towards the door. “Hurry up,” he huffed, impatiently. “We've been sitting here, forever, listening to your prattling.”

 

“You're a sore loser, Draco,” she said, cheerfully, and preceded him out the door.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Her to-do list for Sicily included hiking Mount Etna, looking at every available museum, and trekking to all the famous archaeological sites to look upon the ruins in open awe. She'd actually pulled out a parchment over breakfast with a long list of things she'd planned to do during the week, and the list was _long enough_ that doing _all_ of them would require careful scheduling.

 

His to-do list was: Lay on beach and soak up warmth like some kind of lizard. Occasionally, swim.

 

Obviously, this stark difference in their vacationing attitudes did _not_ lend to a very peaceful first day. Within six minutes of leaving their hotel room, they were squabbling as they meandered down to the beach.

 

“I'm not saying we _can't_ sit on the beach,” she complained. “But why do we have to do it _all day_? We can easily do it for an hour and then just go really quickly to this little ruin--”

 

“How do you _not know how to vacation_?” Draco demanded, incredulously. “It's not a _field trip_. It's a _vacation_ : you're supposed to relax and get drunk and eat, and stuff. If you want enrichment, get the Ministry to fund a trip here so you can get paid to wander around and look at all that stuff. This is _down_ time.”

 

She glared at him. “I can enrich myself if I _want_. Look, you can sit on the beach until you turn into a little white raisin, for all I care. I'm doing my list.” He reached for the parchment, and she snapped it away from his hands, scowling, and quickly folded it and put it back in her pocket.

 

“You can't _separate_ from me on our honeymoon,” he pointed out, pouting.

 

“I can if you're so utterly committed to being _boring_ on it.”

 

He leered at her a bit. “Believe me, I'd keep you _well_ entertained. You think I don't have my own little mental list of things I want to do during this week?”

 

“Great. It's good to have goals. Tell me how all those go when we meet back up at the hotel room tonight,” she said, in a breezy tone, and his leer quickly dropped into a scowl again.

 

They stepped onto the beach, which, she would _freely_ admit, was pretty beautiful. The sand looked like white gold, and the water was a pretty, clear turquoise. People were already on the beach; she saw a small family playing in the water, some kids building a sand castle, and a _lot_ of topless women enjoying the warmth of the sun.

 

“Where do you want to set up camp?” she asked, putting a hand over her eyes to shield them as she squinted around for a bare spot.

 

He pointed, and she headed in that direction. He followed after her, looking at her lean, tan legs as she marched brazenly across the beach – no apologies, no excuse-mes, just Hermione. Hermione on a _mission_ was the sort of woman that everyone kind of gently made a path for, although she didn't seem to notice. As evidenced when she turned to him after finding a bare spot and grinned, one eye squinted against the sun.

 

“Here?” She was already laying the beach towels down. He wondered what she would have done if he'd said _no_.

 

Silent, he dropped onto one of the towels, peeling his shirt off over his head. He was, by a wide margin, the palest person on the whole beach. As he folded his shirt up with quick, graceful movements, she shoved the sunblock into his face. “I told you already, I don't--”

 

“Burn, I know, but that's in the weak _British_ sun. This is Italian sun.”

 

“I have been to Italy _before_ , Hermione,” he reminded her. “And I did not burn. If anything, I'll just bleach even whiter.”

 

She put a hand on her hip. “Will you just indulge me? I'd rather not find out eight years from now that my giving up on this one conversation was the event that led to you _dying_ of skin cancer,” she said, her voice growing a little plaintive. “I will feel a lot better if you just put some on.”

 

“Why don't _you_ put it on me?” he said, suggestively, and yelped a bit when the tube dropped on his head and bounced onto his stomach. He muttered something that rhymed _very closely_ with ' _witch'_ as he uncapped it, pouring some onto his palm and smoothing it over his skin the way he'd seen her do. It smelled much nicer than the other sunblock she'd had, but he still couldn't say he was a fan of the scent in general. Mostly because it was flowery and a little fruity and he was _pretty sure_ it was marketed towards women.

 

When he was done, she took the tube back and said, “Here, turn over and I'll get your back. I need you to get mine, too.”

 

He rolled his eyes, but he turned over obediently. It was weird, but as _annoying_ as it was for her to insist on the sunscreen, it was a little comforting that she was acting so openly protective. He'd have to continue rolling his eyes (for appearances, and all), but he could admit privately to himself that the sensation was pretty pleasant.

 

Her hands smoothed it over his back with the same quick efficiency that she did everything else. Of _course_ she wouldn't take an opportunity to do much else. She _utterly_ lacked in mischief.

 

Thankfully, he had enough for them both.

 

When Hermione took off her shirt and laid down on her stomach, passing him the tube, he took it and surveyed her back for a moment. Then, he poured some of the lotion carefully into his hand and smoothed it _slowly_ across her back, sweeping _awfully_ low. She jerked when his fingers dipped below her swimsuit's fabric and over the top of her bottom, and started to twist around to glare at him. “You are _so_ juvenile--” she complained, which was about the time that he reached up and untied the string of her top, plucking the knot free from its place at the back of her neck..

 

She _squealed_ and quickly dropped back down to keep herself covered, reaching for the strings. “You _prat_!” she seethed. “I'm going to _kill you_!”

 

“Hey, everyone else is doing it. When in Rome,” he said, cheerfully.

 

“We're in _Sicily_ and you are _dead_ ,” she promised, finding the strings and awkwardly reaching up behind herself to start tying them back together. “As soon as I get these-- Draco!” She felt his fingers pluck the strings holding the side of her _bottom_ together. She should have never let Ginny convince her to get this stupid bikini.

 

Draco quickly plucked the knot between her shoulder blades free, too, and then jumped to his feet and scampered towards the water.

 

“You _coward_ ,” she yelled, tying her top back together again before awkwardly sitting up. She held her bottoms together as she re-tied the strings at her hip, glaring at him as he jogged towards the waves. At least the man didn't disappear into the crowd; she could probably see that neon hair and deathly white skin from kilometers off.

 

As soon as she got her bikini put back together, Hermione bolted to her feet and ran after him, awkwardly weaving through the other sunbathers.

 

He was already waist deep in the ocean by the time she made it to the water's edge. She didn't waste any time slogging in after him, but he seemed to move a lot easier in the water, laughing as he tried to keep some distance between them. “I was just trying to help you blend in!” he defended.

 

“I'm going to blend _you_ in. Into the water. Which will also be your grave,” she promised, darkly.

 

She finally started to close the distance between them, and he dipped his hand threateningly below the water. “How does your impossible hair like _salt water_ , I wonder?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

 

Hermione stopped dead, her own eyes narrowing in a mirror of his. “You wouldn't dare.”

 

“It seems that we are at an impasse,” he said, gravely.

 

She circled around him slowly, and he shifted in the water, keeping his hand always poised to splash her. “You won't always have salt-water nearby to protect yourself with,” she pointed out, in a reasonable tone. “Just accept your punishment, which is well-deserved, and let this be done.”

 

“I accept _nothing_.”

 

She took a step towards him, and shrieked when he flicked his hand out of the water, spraying her. She threw her hands up (too late) and then issued a battle-cry as she _charged_ him, barreling into him at top speed and toppling them _both_ into the ocean. She had just enough space of mind to take a breath before she plunged in.

 

They disentangled in the water as they both resurfaced, her struggling to get back to her feet with her hair plastered to her face.

 

He spluttered some water out of his mouth and said, “That seemed like it was more a punishment for _you_ than me. Your hair is going to be an absolute monster, now.” He slicked his own hair off his forehead, smiling as he watched her struggle to do the same.

 

She made a grumpy noise when he reached forward, carefully smoothing every last strand off her face and behind her. “Well, that moment right before I hit you, where your eyes went wide as saucers? That was certainly gratifying.”

 

“I am _quite certain_ that never happened.”

 

“It happened,” she insisted, although the last syllable or so was lost as he crowded her and pressed his lips against hers. She stubbornly refused to respond, still huffy, and he chuckled and curled his arms around her back, deepening it.

 

She started to relax against it, her lips moving against his ever-so-slightly, when she felt his fingers curl up towards her shoulder blades and settle on the knot of her top.

 

Jerking away, Hermione punched him straight in the ribs, earning a grunt as he bowled over. “You git,” she accused, reaching back to double-check the knot and make sure it wasn't in danger of undoing itself.

 

“I wasn't going to even untie it!” he defended, rubbing at the spot where she'd landed the blow.

 

“My _arse,_ you weren't.”

 

He grinned, unable to deny it a second time, and reached for her again. “I promise I won't try it again,” he said, his voice warm as he wrapped his arms around her waist again. “Will you kiss me back, now?”

 

“Will you go to the ruin with me?” she asked, keenly.

 

Draco sighed, and reached up to curl his hand around the back of her neck. “For Merlin's sake, Hermione, we _both_ _know_ I'm going to end up just doing whatever you want, even if it _is_ mind-numbing, which I'm _positively_ certain it will be,” he huffed, exasperated. “But we're spending time on the beach _every day_ or I'm boycotting this entire honeymoon.”

 

A wide smile spread across her face at his admission, and she bounced up on her toes, feeling them sink into the sand as she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

 

He grumbled a bit, but returned it readily, his arms tightening around her as he deepened it.

 

The hand on her back crept a little lower, below the water, and she gasped a bit and pulled back. “Don't _feel me up_. There's kids here,” she reminded him, looking pointedly up at the beach, where two children between the ages of six and eight were building sloppy sandcastles.

 

He pressed his lips against her jaw, her nose, her cheek – anywhere. “They can't see,” he said, between the feathery kisses. “Water's covering it.”

 

“The water's clear as glass, so get your hand off my arse before I remove it from your arm.”

 

Draco groaned dramatically, leaning back away from her. “You are so utterly vexing that I want to leave flowers on Professor Snape's _grave_ for putting up with you for six whole years,” he muttered. “He had the patience of a _saint_.”

 

“Oh, is saintly patience the one where you dock house points just because someone else answered your question _correctly_?” she demanded, indignant.

 

He rolled his eyes, opting not to respond to _that_. “You'll have to take another shower, won't you?”

 

“Yes,” she sighed, feeling her wet curls with a bit of a grimace. “So let's make the most of it and swim some more. Also, those house points were unfairly docked,” she added, unable to let it go.

 

“No comment.”

 

She reached forward to pinch him, and he evaded her grasping fingers and jabbed her in her side, making her squeal as she danced away from him. He chased her deeper in the water, until she was forced to try and _swim_ away from his tickling fingers, and then he caught her – holding her against him firmly, his arms crossed across her belly as he dug his fingers into her ribs. Her struggles were useless, almost _sluggish_ in the water, and soon she was pleading for mercy.

 

“Stop, stop-- I give up!” she gasped, and he felt her heel strike weakly against his knee. “Draco, you're going to make me pee myself, I swear to _God_ \--”

 

He stopped, then, if only because he didn't particularly relish the thought, but he buried his face into the crook of her neck, nipping at the skin there. “When we go back to the hotel to shower, can we shag again?” he asked, dragging his teeth up the side of her neck again.

 

“You are _so--_ ”

 

“And I'll spend the rest of the day doing whatever boring stuff you want,” he promised.

 

She hesitated. “It's _not_ boring,” she argued, but he could tell he'd won. He pressed another kiss against the nape of her neck, using one arm to hold her against him and letting his other hand coast over the soft skin of her belly. When it drifted a little too far South, she said, “Don't you _dare_.”

 

Draco chuckled, turning her in the water to face him, pulling her legs around his waist so that she could keep herself up as he took another step deeper into the water. It was up to his shoulders, now.

 

Hermione wound her arms loosely around his neck, chewing the inside of her cheek idly as she faced him. “Do you really not tan?” she suddenly asked, reaching up to run a finger curiously over the shell of his ear. Even her fingertip was shades darker than his skin. She found the pale quality of his body utterly fascinating.

 

“I never have before. I suppose there's a first time for everything,” he allowed, with a faint shrug. He looked at her sun-kissed face, and asked, “Does it bother you?”

 

She shook her head. “It's kind of pretty,” she said. He made a faint face, and she added, hastily, “Like marble.”

 

He still looked doubtful as to whether or not that was a compliment, but he let it go. “Everyone in my family is pale – every single Malfoy I've ever known of. Except you.”

 

“Does _that_ bother you?”

 

Draco sobered, and shook his head, his expression growing serious. “ _Everything_ about the way you look is perfect to me,” he said, his tone almost too blunt and forceful. “From your skin to your ridiculous nonsense hair.”

 

“You can blame my father for my nonsense hair. You can't tell, since he keeps it so short, but it's even worse than mine,” she joked, a little uncomfortable with the compliment.

 

“I like your hair a lot,” he repeated, firmly.

 

“Alright, I get it.”

 

“I don't think you do,” Draco insisted. His voice was quiet, and earnest. “Because all you ever do is apologize for it. You get embarrassed when it's just being itself. You try and pull it back a lot so it doesn't look too silly. I know I joke about it too much, but I really like it. A lot. I don't think it's a nuisance, and even when you think it's at its worst, I wouldn't want to trade it out for _any_ other head of hair.”

 

Momentarily speechless, Hermione just stared at him, swallowing a bit as her face heated. “You're getting awfully serious,” she finally settled on saying. “I don't mean it when I say that I hate my hair.”

 

“Are you sure?” he asked, softly. “When you say it as much as you do, you can't blame me for wondering.”

 

Okay, so maybe she did kind of hate it. Maybe she did wish she had something more manageable – something sleek and pretty and _light_ and glossy. The kind of hair that she saw getting flipped around in those shampoo commercials. Sighing a bit, she just shrugged, not sure what to say.

 

“It's beautiful, just like you,” he said, somberly. He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips over her mouth. She felt as though her heart were stuck in her throat.

 

Hermione tilted her chin up, catching his lips more firmly. It was soft and slow – almost comfortable.

 

When it was over, she pulled back, and said, her voice soft as a bruise: “Thank you.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After swimming, Draco _insisted_ on laying out on the beach for another hour, and ended up falling asleep sprawled out over his towel. She laid on her stomach beside him, reading. She could feel her hair drying, the salt making it tacky and sticky and too-dry. She couldn't wait to wash it out.

 

Thinking about her hair drove her thoughts back to that moment in the water. To be honest, she didn't know how to handle it when Draco was being earnest or sincere, sometimes.

 

She realized that when it came to certain subjects, like her hair, she was just _always_ waiting for a snide remark. She'd rather thought she'd gotten over the six years of verbal bullying at school, but apparently it had settled a lot deeper than she'd thought. And, for maybe the first time, Hermione wondered if she didn't make fun of her own hair so that she could do it before someone else did. Was her open acceptance of it just that, or simply another defensive maneuver to lessen the impact of other people's weaponry?

 

Sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye, Hermione realized she hadn't read a single word of the page she'd been on for the last twenty minutes, and sighed. She gave up and looked at him more openly, since he was clearly asleep.

 

His eyelashes where the same pale color as his hair, and his eyebrows were only a hint darker. He really did look like a Greek, marble statue – if the statue were skinnier, with harder, ropier muscles and with sharper angles all over the place. He'd thrown his forearm over his eyebrows, using the shade to protect his closed eyes, and she could make out the faded remains of his Dark Mark. She'd seen it several times while they were naked together, but not once had she ever made mention of it. Neither of them had, both readily willing to ignore it forever.

 

That probably wasn't healthy. She didn't know how to bring it up without making him clam up. She knew that the tattoo didn't represent a proud or happy time in his life. It was simply a shame that removing the damn thing was impossible.

 

Maybe he could cover it up with something better, like people did when they got the names of their significant others tattooed on their bodies before the relationship suddenly imploded.

 

Hermione tried to imagine Draco with an entire sleeve of tattoos, his platinum hair spiked up into a faux-hawk and dyed pink or blue, and snickered, finally waking him up. As he roused, inhaling deeply and squinting around in vague confusion, she asked, “Are you finally done roasting?”

 

He yawned, dragging his arm down to cover it. “Mm,” he hummed, eyes fluttering closed again. “Let's just sleep here, tonight.”

 

“No,” she huffed. “I'm bored, and my--” She almost said her hair was turning into a salt-crusted haystack, and cut herself off. Maybe it was time to stop making demeaning jokes about her hair. “My book is getting sand all in it. Let's go, so I can get a shower before the ruins close.”

 

Draco moaned in abject misery. “Why does my wife want to do _every boring thing on this island_?” he demanded of the sky.

 

She got up and began to yank the towel out from underneath him. “Up!”

 

He squawked a bit, scrambling to get up before she dumped him into the sand. “I think putting up with your swotty self should be considered the ultimate atonement for every bastard-ish thing I did during the war,” he muttered, brushing some sand off of his legs. He grabbed his shirt and shook it out a bit.

 

“Yes, you're _such_ a martyr for going to a ruin,” she agreed, sarcastically. She handed him his towel. “Fold this.”

 

Draco groaned loudly and with _much melodrama_ as he took the towel, huffily folding it as _badly_ as he could before throwing it in the general direction of her messenger bag. She stifled a smile. She wasn't sure when his bratty nonsense had become more charming than annoying. She was almost afraid to try and pinpoint the exact moment, actually.

 

It had probably been embarrassingly soon.

 


	48. All Hail The Red Thing

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Eight: All Hail The Red Thing**

 

…

 

“This week is passing quickly,” Draco said, sagely. They were on day four of their honeymoon, and for the most part, they'd managed to come to terms with the ebb and flow of their day: In the mornings, they'd head to the beach to enjoy the sun and the water (she started charming her hair beforehand to try and keep it dry; it hadn't worked the first day but she'd managed the second, and had braided it up so that the fact that it was actively repelling water wouldn't be quite so noticeable).

 

After that, they'd head somewhere for lunch, and then Hermione would drag him to whatever things she wanted to do, and he'd whine and complain but not once had he failed to go.

 

When she'd made him hike Mount Etna with her, he'd looked at the mountain in disbelief, demanding to know _why_ she wanted to _walk_ up there like a pair of _animals_. When she'd cited the view, he'd suggested Apparating. When she said the walk was pleasant, he'd just given her a _look_ , like he was almost suspicious that she was pulling a prank on him but wasn't sure how to go about proving it. In the end, he'd done it, although he'd muttered angrily whenever the incline got to be too steep.

 

For a boy who spent his entire childhood playing a sport, he sure was grumpy about general physical activity.

 

During dinner, whatever they'd spent the day bickering about usually faded away, and their talks would run quiet and deep – he was always curious, now, about the world outside the wizarding universe. He'd ask her about things he'd read about in book he'd borrowed from Harry – what was the Holocaust? How did a bomb work? What was a 'Chernobyl'? How many people were in the 'World Wars'? Once, when she'd felt like the conversations had grown rather dark, she began talking about some of humanity's achievements: The moon landing. Space travel. They'd sent a satellite up there to take pictures, sent a rover to Mars. She talked about how atoms were discovered, how everything was made of them.

 

She talked about the _internet_ , and how people were all getting connected to each other, even if they were in entirely different countries – how with the internet, you could talk to a person halfway across the world with no delay. No waiting for an owl to arrive. He was immensely fascinated by the idea of the internet – a television through which one could talk to everyone or learn or read about things that were going on.

 

He asked her to show him, and she promised. Just as soon as they got back home.

 

At night, they'd fall into bed together. Sometimes it was fast and almost frantic, and sometimes it was so slow and sweet that she wanted to keep the memory of it alive in her mind forever – that exact moment when their eyes would connect as he thrust into her. No matter how it was, it was always eager, and fun.

 

She'd always thought of sex as sort of a serious thing. Even with Ron, it had been mostly sweet, and if there were funny moments, they were a little awkward and few and far in between.

 

With Draco, though, she found herself laughing, half the time. And he'd laugh along with her. He'd suggest trying something new, or she'd try and do something a little _different_ mid-way through, and something weird or unexpected would happen, and then they'd be dying of laughter and trying to keep the mood going with each other. It didn't always work, but they always found the mood again shortly after. She realized that maybe _that_ was what she'd been missing, with Ron.

 

Someone she could really be herself with. And not the 'herself' that she'd been with her best friends – the self-actualized brainiac who brimmed over with confidence.

 

Instead, she got to be the woman who sometimes did or said something stupid, and she got to be that with the man who did the same thing. In a weird way, she felt like she was re-discovering herself, and meeting a version of her own personality that she'd tucked away years ago in order to deal with the war and its damning after-effects. She felt _less afraid_. She didn't examine her words before she said them as much, because if she was wrong... well, she was starting to realize that maybe being wrong every once in a while wasn't the _biggest tragedy_.

 

She wondered if this little Hermione Renaissance would suddenly fade away when the honeymoon was over, and she was faced with her desk again, slogging away through the Ministry on her grand crusade to save the world from stubborn idiots.

 

“Her _mione_ ,” Draco said, exasperated, his voice slicing through her thoughts. She realized that he'd tried to get her attention a few times, and blinked up at him, grimacing a bit in apology. “I _said_ , the week is passing by _very quickly_. We only have two and a half more days. That's it. Then it's all done.”

 

She squinted at him. “I'm _not_ shagging you on the _balcony_. Firstly, everyone will be able to see.”

 

“ _What_ everyone? We're on the top floor!”

 

“ _Secondly_ , there's nothing out there with any cushions,” she continued.

 

He made an aggravated noise. “Like we can't drag some pillows out there. That's your weakest argument, by far,” he informed her.

 

“Thirdly, we'll get fleas or something.”

 

“That one is so patently ridiculous that I am striking it from the record. It doesn't exist.” He made a slashing motion with his hand, dismissing it utterly.

 

She leveled a glare at him. “ _And finally_ ,” she enunciated, picking up her book pointedly to signify that she didn't intend to discuss this any further. Not that the gambit ever worked – she'd long since realized that no conversation was over when either of them were still champing at the bit to talk about it – but she always tried, anyway. “I am still _very annoyed_ about my _shirt_.”

 

“You mean _Weasel's_ shirt,” Draco muttered. At her sharp look, he added, “And I don't know how it got in the garbage disposal.”

 

Hermione closed her book and dropped it on the coffee table. “It just _flew in there_ , did it?”

 

“I have _no idea_ ,” he said, in such a pure and sweet tone that she _knew_ that – _somehow_ – he wasn't lying. Her eyes narrowed, and he just smiled at her, and beneath the blandness of his expression was a coiling sort of smugness. Even when he was playing innocent, he could _never_ resist the urge to gloat.

 

Folding her arms, Hermione thought over the options. “So you – asked a house elf?” The hotel had several, but she'd rarely seen them; only once, actually, when she got up very early to use the loo and had looked over the wall of the loft to see that the little elf was meticulously setting the continental breakfast across the dining room table. Other than that, they were almost like ghosts.

 

Draco said, “No.”

 

“ _Told_ a house elf.”

 

“No,” he said, a small smile playing about his mouth.

 

“Was a house elf _involved?_ ” she demanded. It wasn't so much about the shirt, by this point, as it was about her burning desire to _know_. She hated not knowing something.

 

He lifted his wine glass. “How can I be expected to know something like that?” he murmured, in a smooth tone.

 

“Ah- _ha_! Non-answer! So what did you say to the damn house-elf?”

 

“Hermione, I – for one – am extremely hurt by this interrogation,” he announced, taking a sip of his Marsala. She'd gone for water, instead; she'd never much cared for sweet wines, and the Marsala he'd chosen was almost cloyingly so. When she scoffed at his declaration, he continued, “And I can't believe that I have to sit here and defend myself from your _wild_ accusations.”

 

She picked her book back up. “I'm just going to ask the house elf,” she decided.

 

He crossed the living room, depositing his wine glass on the coffee table and crawling onto the couch, depositing his head in her lap as she lifted the book above his face to make room. “How do you know I wasn't clever enough to ask one that wasn't tending our room?” he wondered.

 

“Because you're not clever. You're a daft idiot.” She placed the book on his face, tilting it against the contours of his nose like a bookstand.

 

His voice emerged, muffled, from beneath it: “That's not true. I was towards the top of our class every year.” Save the sixth one, she mentally amended. They didn't really talk about that, either, she realized. “And I _was_ the top of the normal, non-swotty nerds by a wide margin.”

 

She pressed her palm into the crease of the book, slowly, and he grunted in discomfort and shifted his nose away.

 

“I'll get you a new shirt. You can have _all_ of my shirts,” he offered. “Every last one of them. I'll go shirtless for the rest of my life. But throw all of _his_ out.”

 

“You're making such a big deal out of nothing,” she muttered, and he reached up to remove the book from his face, setting it on the coffee table as he looked up at her. One of her hands automatically wove through his hair, and he smiled.

 

“So what? I'm allowed to be a child about one thing in our marriage, and it's you wearing your ex-boyfriend's clothes,” he said, primly. “In exchange, I'll indulge _your_ childish thing.”

 

“And what if I told you that I don't _have_ a childish thing, as I am not a child?”

 

“You'd be a liar. Everyone has a childish thing. I have my petty jealousy issues, and you have...” He trailed off, looking up at her expectantly as he waited for her to fill in the blank.

 

She wracked her brain for a moment. Finally, she shrugged, a bit at a loss. She was sure, despite her earlier denial, that there _was_ something. Whatever it was, though, she couldn't think of it. “I've no idea. Let's defer it until it comes to me,” she suggested. “I reserve the right to initiate my one childish thing you must indulge at _any_ time, for any thing.”

 

He sighed. “You're asking me to place a _lot_ of trust in you.”

 

“That should be easy. I'm a nice person,” she scoffed. “What could you possibly be worried about when it comes to that, from _me_?”

 

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But for some reason, I get the feeling that I am going to regret this moment _immensely_ when you finally find your childish thing.” He sat up, turning to sit beside her, and then started pulling her into his lap. She was still wearing the jeans and blouse she'd worn all day. “If you won't go on the balcony, can you at least put on that red thing?”

 

She snorted. “I'll never understand your fascination with the red thing.”

 

“I don't expect you to,” he said, honestly. “But please put it on. Put it on all the time. Walk around the Manor in it. Wear it outside.”

 

“You're an idiot,” she muttered, but with that strain of affection he'd become so used to. She slid off of his lap and headed up the stairs, and he smiled and let his head fall back against the back of the couch, watching her upside-down as she disappeared from view.

 

When she re-emerged at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, he quickly turned, getting to his knees on the couch and planting his elbows on the back to watch her come down.

 

'The Red Thing' was actually a piece of lingerie that had a base of nude-colored, sheer nylon. Spiraling red-lace flowers curled all over it, giving the impression that she'd tattooed them in bright red ink on her naked body. They curled and bloomed impressively over her nipples and her crotch, hiding them from view. The red garters and matching tights were hardly a necessary addition, but he loved those, too.

 

Knowing that Hermione had _not_ been the one to pick out this completely unnecessary outfit – no, this had Ginny written all over it – did _nothing_ to lessen his enjoyment of it.

 

He lifted his hands and intoned, “All hail the Red Thing. All _glory_ to the Red Thing.”

 

She shook her head, trying not to flush as she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, biting back a smile. Hermione fisted her hands against her hips, trying not to look as self-conscious as she felt. Wearing the lingerie had proven to be harder than just being naked; knowing she was trying to actively _be appealing_ lent an air to the whole situation that left her feeling oddly vulnerable, even though she was technically _less_ naked.

 

“The Red Thing should be displayed under the stars for proper tribute,” he tried.

 

“No.”

 

His voice dropped to a whisper. “The Red Thing is displeased.”

 

She laughed, closing the distance between the bottom of the staircase and the couch to flick his ear. “You're such an obnoxious little prat,” she told him, grinning as she leaned down to offer him a quick kiss. “Remind me of why I put up with you, again?”

 

“I have a list,” he assured her.

 

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, in horror. “He has a _list_. And _why_ does he have a list?”

 

He shrugged. “In case you ever asked me that question. Number one--”

 

“Oh, my God.”

 

“ _Number one_. I'm extremely handsome, and you're awfully attracted to me,” he pointed out, in the same matter-of-fact tone he'd use to discuss the weather. “Number two, the sex is fantastic, and I am fantastic at it.”

 

“Alright, wait just--”

 

“Number _three_ , I'm _very_ funny, and I make you laugh, _which_ you've already explained releases hormones and chemicals that make you consider me a more attractive mating prospect,” he said, with a kind of restrained glee at the opportunity to toss her words back into her face. “Number four, you like me,” he said, almost accusing, his eyes narrowing. “You think I'm fun to be with and you can't imagine a life without me.”

 

“Did you have to pay extra to check all that self-delusion on the plane?” she asked, and he just blinked, staring at her blankly. “Okay, Muggle joke. Sorry. I can't make it work for wizards, because you don't check luggage on a Portkey-- you know what, nevermind.”

 

“Do you want me to laugh as though I found it very clever?” he offered, kindly.

 

She glared at him, pursing her lips.

 

His wide smile returned, and he led her around the edge of the couch as he stood. “Alright. We have two options for the next ten minutes. The first is that we go out on the balcony and _just snog_ ,” he said, loudly, over her immediate protests.

 

“We will not _just snog_ , you liar,” she accused.

 

“We will go out to snog and _nothing more_ ,” he insisted, in an innocent tone. “Or you can tell me about that Polyjuice incident your redheaded little friend mentioned.”

 

He'd asked her about it before, actually – on their second day. However, she'd been so embarrassed about accidentally turning herself into a cat that she'd just blushed and deflected the question. He'd let the matter drop, then, but the calculating gleam that entered his eye had made it quite clear that he'd not forget about it any time soon.

 

Hermione groaned. “It's not that interesting of a story!” she tried.

 

“So, balcony?”

 

“Actually, there's a third option, which is that I do _neither_ of those things,” she huffed. “Because I don't _have_ to if I don't _feel like it_.”

 

“You promised to tell me about the Polyjuice. I'm just providing you with the means to postpone doing so,” he reminded her. “And you get to postpone it by _snogging me_. I should write a story about how _lucky_ you are.”

 

“You can title it, _One Hundred And One Ways To Ensure A Sexless Marriage_.”

 

He rolled his eyes briefly and sat back down on the couch, his hands on her hips. “Tell me about the polyjuice,” he demanded, tugging her forward a bit. She placed a knee on either side of his lap, sitting on his legs and shifting a bit to get comfortable. “You really made one in second year?”

 

Hermione shrugged a bit. “Yes. Harry thought you were the Heir of Slytherin--”

 

Draco started laughing, tossing his head back.

 

“-- _And so_ , Harry and Ron turned into Crabbe and Goyle to try and talk to you about it to see if you were,” she continued, over his laughter.

 

“Why didn't you turn into anyone?” he asked, when he'd stopped.

 

She hesitated, feeling her cheeks burn. He caught that hesitation immediately, his eyes narrowing the tiniest bit as he leaned forward again, eagerly. Hermione made a face at him and muttered, “I was supposed to turn into Millicent Bulstrode, but-- it didn't-- We made a mistake.”

 

He looked like he'd just found out it was Christmas morning. “What mistake?”

 

Hermione's nose wrinkled, and she mumbled, “I thought it was her hair but it was a cat's hair.”

 

Silence reigned for a few moments as Draco's mind churned through what that meant – all the way through – and then he'd all but _collapsed_ against the couch, _howling_. Hermione scowled at him, waiting for him to _choke to death_ on his _own wretched spittle_ , and climbed out of his lap with a huff. He reached for her weakly, but she evaded his hands cleanly as she headed back to the stairs.

 

“I'm taking this _off_ ,” she called down over the railing. His face was turning red with how hard he was laughing. And _really_ , she didn't think it was all _that_ funny. She'd only been twelve, for goodness' sake!

 

He waved a hand at her, but couldn't get any words out, and she grumbled and stomped into the bathroom.

 

After divesting herself of the red thing, she decided to go sit in the sauna-shower, since it was – by far – her favorite thing about the room. Draco couldn't understand her obsession with it, even going so far as to compare it against her hatred of cuddling (“I thought you hated being hot and sticky, and now you're sitting in a room designed specifically to make you hot and sticky?”). Even more to the point, Draco _did not like_ the sauna-shower because when she was using the sauna part, she recoiled from all physical touch, finding that it felt rather gross when she was already hot.

 

Although he'd endured two sessions of steaming with her, sitting on opposite sides of the shower, he'd finally thrown his hands up and declared it both _insufferable_ and _boring_ , and now when she used it, he went and did something else.

 

She laid down on the bench, her knees bent up. She'd just closed her eyes when she heard him groan from inside the bathroom. “Not _again_ ,” he complained. “Hermione, come back out here.”

 

“Apologize for laughing.”

 

“I'm _not_ apologizing for the fact that you turning into a cat is utterly hilarious,” he refused, promptly. “And I hate this thing. I'm going to make them change our rooms to something without it.”

 

She opened an eye to peek at him. He was standing outside the glass, his arms folded, looking like a two-year old on the verge of a nasty temper-tantrum. Smirking a bit, she settled more comfortably against the bench. “It's too late. I've already started.” She closed her eyes again.

 

“I'm going to come in there and put my hot, sticky hands all over you.” He opened the glass door.

 

Her eyes flew open. “Don't you-- Draco,” she said, warningly. He was still fully dressed as he crossed the glass chamber, his hands out threateningly. “Draco, if you so much as lay a _single finger_ on me...”

 

His hands stopped above her, hovering in mild threat.

 

Then, slowly, he pushed his index finger into her belly, his expression utterly devoid of any apology as he waited for her to react. He really was a _child_.

 

Hermione slapped his hand away, and he put the index finger of his other hand in the same spot immediately. What followed was a slap-fest of her slapping his hands away one at a time, only for him to put down his other one, stubbornly. Finally, she sat up, exasperated. “What is the _matter_ with you?”

 

“I'm a spoiled brat and I want attention.”

 

She rolled her eyes, and got to her feet, gesturing at him to lead the way. He looked happily surprised that she'd given in so easily, and turned to leave the bathroom with her on his heels. As soon as he'd left, she closed the bathroom door, locking it. As she turned to head back to the sauna, she heard him cry in pure outrage and slap his palm against the door.

 

Of course, she'd barely made it inside before he'd _Alohamora_ 'd the door, barging back in. She put her hands on her hips as she turned to face him. “Merlin, Draco. Can't you take a hint?”

 

“You're mean.” He twirled his wand. “And unarmed.”

 

Her eyes became slits. “What are you going to do,” she huffed, a bit mockingly. “Hex me? On our _honeymoon_.”

 

“Maybe body-bind, and let that one wear off out on the balcony. Sure hope all those other rooms _nowhere near us_ don't get an eyeful.” He stepped closer to her, and tapped the tip of his wand against her collarbone. She knew she didn't feel threatened, logically, but her stomach tightened instinctively against the sensation. Slowly, he dragged the tip between her breasts, cross her sternum, and then over her soft belly. He paused at her belly-button, and let the tip of his wand drag into it, catching on the dip.

 

He whispered, “Boop.”

 

She burst out laughing, stepping back a bit to smack his wand away from her. “You have gone absolutely mad,” she accused, pushing past him and heading back out into the bedroom.

 

He crowded her immediately as she was passing the bed, wrapping his arms around her stomach to pin her against his chest. “I won't _deny_ that.” He sat down on the bed, pulling her into his lap. It felt weird to be naked against his fully-clothed form – he was even wearing his _waistcoat_ still, from dinner. One of his hands dropped from her stomach to smooth over her thigh.

 

“What are you doing?” she murmured, as he pushed her knees apart.

 

“You know, I think it'd be fun to tie you up.”

 

She twisted to face him. “ _What_?”

 

He pecked at her cheek. “Not _all the way_ , just to kind of-- No?” He looked at her face, grimacing a bit at the shock he saw there. “Not even a little?”

 

Hermione hesitated. “I mean-- not any time _soon_ ,” she finally said, slowly, not sure how to take that revelation. She hadn't pegged Draco for being someone who was into BDSM. Actually, she hadn't pegged him for the sort of guy who was into anything that wasn't purely vanilla.

 

She wasn't sure how she felt about the prospect of being restrained. She wouldn't know, for _sure_ , until it happened.

 

But she was worried it would terrify her.

 

“Let me know when you're ready to discuss it, then,” he said, with a soft shrug of his shoulders. “No pressure.” His hand pressed against her before she could really respond, and he hummed in contentment when she jerked a bit in surprise. He nibbled at her earlobe, raising goosebumps across her arms, and dragged his fingernails lightly across the lips.

 

Swallowing, she shifted in his lap, distracted by the feel of his pants on her arse. “You don't want to be naked, for this?” she wondered.

 

“No.” He pulled her legs out wider, draping her calves on the outside of his. Both of his hands smoothed up the inside of her thighs, from her knees. One smoothed over her and up her stomach to her chest – he never could seem to leave those alone – and the other pressed more firmly into her, his middle finger sliding into her. He pumped it, slowly, using the ball of his thumb to press lazy circles into her clit.

 

She moaned, soft, the sound trapped in her throat as she dropped her head back against his shoulder. He kept the movements slow and steady, but always backed off or hesitated just a bit too long when she got close.

 

Hermione groaned once she realized what he was doing. To her credit, though, she stubbornly lasted through at least twenty minutes of torture before she snapped, “Damn you, Draco, you _insufferable_ little--” She'd had more words prepared, starting to spill out of her throat, but they morphed into a moaning sigh of pleasure as he finally tipped her over the edge, his smug chuckle sounding quietly against her ear.

 

His fingers kept going, riding her through the orgasm, until she was a boneless heap against him.

 

When she clasped her hands over his wrist, he stopped, although she could sense that he wanted to keep going – to tease another one out of her. “Get your clothes off,” she ordered, trying to wriggle out of his lap.

 

He released her, and she wasn't sure how, but he managed to strip off every layer of his fussy clothing in about ten seconds. She smiled, taking a moment to relish the view before gesturing at him impatiently – pointing to the headboard. He began sliding back across the bed, dragging himself up against the pillows on his elbows as she crawled between his legs. “You know, two can play at that game,” she pointed out, circling her fingers around his shaft.

 

Draco groaned. “Don't,” he pleaded.

 

She sent him a grin before kissing the head of his dick, smoothing her lips over it tauntingly. He let his head fall back against the pillows, moaning in utter misery. “You're going to kill me. I'm going to _die_.” She let the underside of her tongue trail across the head, and he exhaled roughly at the smooth sensation, the muscles in his stomach twitching.

 

Hermione laid down to get a bit more comfortable as she sucked and licked at the tip, very lightly, providing no traction to really move forward towards orgasm.

 

“Okay,” he finally grit out, after about three minutes. “Mercy. Please.”

 

Her smile briefly widened. “Say that again,” she said. “The last one.”

 

His eyes fluttered closed as he worked through the pain of having to say _please_ like some sort of beggar. For a second, it looked like he might be too stubborn to do it, but if that were the case... well, he abruptly changed his mind when she lipped softly at the ridge of his head. “ _Please_ ,” he enunciated.

 

“Again.” But she took the entire head in her mouth, sucking a bit. She went a little deeper when he said it again, and he caught on quickly, saying the word rapid-fire as she shot him a devilishly amused look, filling her mouth with him.

 

She began bobbing up and down, hollowing out her cheeks as she pulled up. If he lapsed for even a _second_ in his devotion to the word 'please,' she stopped, shooting him a look.

 

He got good at saying it through his moans pretty quickly, wheezing it out even when he didn't think he had any air to speak at all. When he finally came, it was with an elongated, tortured _pleeeease_ as he spilled into her mouth, his fingers twisting the bedsheets with an unfulfilled desire to grab her head and hold it in place. She swallowed, which he was _pretty sure_ was just about the best thing anyone had ever done. It probably even beat out the invention of that 'internet' she'd talked about. It sure as _shit_ beat out landing on the moon; he knew that much for sure.

 

Draco's fingers finally released the sheets, and he laid there, boneless, as she pulled off of him with a _pop_. “You're good at begging,” was her first observation.

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he returned, snottily.

 

She just laughed, crawling up the bed to lay beside him. He rolled towards her, letting his eyes crack open the slightest bit. She met his gaze and grinned.

 

For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something. Instead of saying whatever it was, he kissed her, long and hard, his hand curling possessively around the small of her back. They broke off from each other, looking dreamily into the other's eyes.

 

The next thing she knew, he was waking her up at _God_ knows what hour, his face buried between her thighs.

 

She supposed she could file the complaint away for later.

 


	49. Needing Is One Thing

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Needing Is One Thing**

 

…

 

Hermione stared at her work, not really reading the words. It was Monday morning, and the largest thought looming in her mind was that she'd completely missed an entire ruin in Sicily. She'd thought there would be more time on Sunday, but Draco had ended up having to rush them back to England for something his father was doing.

 

When she got home, Crookshanks immediately started yowling in utter and abject misery. After comforting him and giving him some food, she glanced around for some evidence that Ron had _actually_ been taking care of her precious familiar like he'd promised to do all week. The litterbox looked _somewhat_ clean. Crookshanks didn't look like he'd lost a bunch of weight.

 

She was making tea when she noticed the folded up paper on her kitchen table. Crookshanks was chowing down happily on his food when she opened it.

 

_Hermione,_

 

_I DID watch your stupid cat all week. Also, have I mentioned that your cat is the biggest arsehole to ever walk this planet? I even like Malfoy better. That's how much of a cock your stupid cat is._

 

_It is now Sunday night and I have already fed Crooks so do not give him more food, he's fine._

 

_Hope you had a good time in Sicily. Love you!_

 

_Ron_

 

She put the letter down and glared at Crookshanks, who didn't even have the decency to look guilty over his deception. “Naughty cat,” she muttered, as he quickly tore through his second dinner of the evening. She finished making her tea as she watched the ginger cat finish off all of his food and settle into the corner of the living room to lick himself and then nap. After making herself a quick dinner from the meager remains of her post-vacation fridge, she went to bed.

 

And she allowed herself to think that it was a little weird to not fall asleep beside him.

 

The golden nameplate was _still_ on her cubicle when she got to work that morning, and she sent Harry a terse owl asking _what in the blue blazes it was doing there_.

 

He appeared shortly after, grimacing in apology. “I didn't want to bother you while you were on vacation,” he prefaced the explanation, holding up his hands in pre-emptive defense. “But he put some kind of sticking charm on it. I brought Bill in, even, but he says that a Malfoy has to be the one to take it off.”

 

She groaned, staring at it. “He'll refuse. Do you think Narcissa will do it?”

 

Harry stared at her, squinting a bit as he waited for her to connect the dots. When she didn't do it immediately, he rolled his eyes. “Hermione, what's your last name?”

 

“Gr-- oh!” She picked up the nameplate, and it slid right off. She stared at it, and sighed, tucking it into her robes. She was going to melt it down into a beating stick and beat Draco over the head with it. “I can't believe it's just been sitting up here all week. That is so mortifying.”

 

“Could be worse.”

 

She lifted her eyebrows, waiting, and he blinked at her, flushing a bit.

 

“Oh, I was just saying that. I don't really know _how_ it could be worse,” he amended, with a shrug. “I thought it might make you feel better.”

 

“You're a _real_ comfort.” She sat back down, spreading her parchments over her desk and glancing over them. “Don't bother me for lunch today, alright? I really need to catch up,” she muttered. Now that the vacation was over, she was having trouble imagining what could have possessed her to think she deserved an entire week off. All this work – left behind. Undone. _Gathering dust_.

 

Harry shook his head. “No can do. No more fasting throughout the day. I'll pick you up at noon.”

 

“Harry--”

 

“See you at noon, then!” he interrupted, in a bright tone. He swooped in to plant a kiss on her forehead, and whirled on his heel to walk away before she could argue anymore.

 

She spent the rest of her morning sluggishly trying to catch up with everything. That was the problem with vacations, really. It was difficult to hit the ground _running_ after a whole week of lounging on the beach. She was having trouble finding the same mental state she'd had before leaving, and even some of her notes didn't make much sense to her. She'd been in too much of a hurry when she was writing them that last Friday before her week off, and they were written in some sort of short-hand she could no longer decipher.

 

Hermione sighed gustily, but slogged through every last bit of it, stubbornly. She wasn't going to waste her first day back like _some_ unnamed people in her department.

 

Harry was ten minutes late picking her up, not that she noticed. In the cafeteria line, she turned to him and said, “Oh, I forgot to ask – who did Luna get?” she asked, frowning a bit. She'd half expected to get an owl with the news while she was in Siciliy, but apparently Harry had extended the “no-contact” resolution to the rest of her friends.

 

His face fell a bit. “Goyle,” he muttered.

 

She sucked in a breath, feeling an involuntary twinge of disgust at the very _notion_. Since the war, Gregory Goyle had largely stayed off of every radar; he wasn't mentioned in the _Prophet_ , he didn't cause any trouble. He was, by all accounts, largely reformed.

 

But he was so _stupid._ She couldn't imagine that Luna – who, despite her beliefs in certain nonexistential creatures, was still a Ravenclaw – was very happy.

 

“ _Goyle_?” she repeated, her face twisted up a bit as her nose wrinkled. “Oh, poor Luna. I don't even know what he's been _doing_ with himself all these years. Draco never mentions him, at all.” She took a step forward as the line moved.

 

“Actually, he's been raising hippogriffs out in the country side,” Harry said, shaking his head a bit. “Apparently he's got a knack for it. He has a bit of a following. There's a waitlist for his chicks that's more than two years out.”

 

“Ugh. Breeding hippogriffs for show is so revolting,” she muttered. Still, she was surprised that he was doing _anything_ with his life – let alone something he'd proven to be good at.

 

Harry shrugged, not seeing any real problem with the career. “Either way, he didn't seem _bad_ when we met up with the Matchmakers. Ginny and I went along with Luna's father, just to make sure things stayed civil. It was kind of sad, actually. He doesn't have any more family, you know. He was just there, by himself.”

 

She crossed her arms, not particularly interested in feeling sorry for Gregory Goyle. He wasn't an utter creep like Crabbe had been, but she still didn't like him. “Well, what does he expect?”

 

“Don't be mean,” he said, softly. “No one expects their parents to die before them. And he was as much a kid as Draco was.”

 

“Alright,” she sighed, bitterly. “Well, how did he and Luna get on, then?”

 

They approached the counter (finally) and pointed at the things they wanted, letting the cafeteria elves dish them out on trays as they continued talking. “Well enough, I suppose. He's really quiet. I guess he's always been, but I never noticed, with how loud Draco always was,” he huffed, rolling his eyes a bit. “He was very polite, though. He didn't even bother trying to re-format the contract, just confirmed that Luna was alright with it and signed it then and there.”

 

She fell silent, mulling it over. “Ugh,” she finally said, scowling a bit. She'd likely never get over this. “What's Luna's plan, then? She's going to have to-- you know.”

 

He shrugged. “She didn't say. Oh, but-- and you'll laugh-- she kissed him on the cheek when we left, and he turned so red I thought his head was going to pop right off of his body,” he said, laughing. When Hermione didn't laugh, he groaned in frustration. “Ginny didn't think that was funny, _either_. What is wrong with you two?”

 

She frowned. “I don't know. That just seems-- it's cute,” she finally settled on. “It's sweet. I mean. Weird. Really weird. But sweet.”

 

“You wonder how Draco will react to seeing him, again? Luna asked, and Goyle said they hadn't spoken even once since the last battle,” Harry murmured, grabbing his tray with an absent _thank you_ to the elf as he turned to find a table. “You think they had a falling out?”

 

“Maybe,” she said, thoughtfully. “I mean, he did sort of treat Goyle like rubbish all those years.”

 

“True,” he agreed, sitting. He grabbed his juice box and struggled a bit to push the weak straw into it. When the straw broke, he tilted his head back to groan, loudly, and got up to grab a cup of water from the side of the cafeteria.

 

Hermione poked at her food, which looked like steak and beans that had been stir-fried together. It had come with a side of rice, and cabbage.

 

What those food items had to do with each other, she'd no idea.

 

When Harry returned, she asked, “So what are the wedding plans?”

 

“Well, she's still looking for Moon Frogs, so they decided to wait the whole year. Then she's going to take the time off, I guess, have the two kids, and end it. Actually, I brought up artificial insemination because of you, and Goyle seemed surprisingly receptive to it, but Luna said it didn't feel right to do it that way. Something about how if you don't have the kids through love, they won't be... loved...” He trailed off, and shook his head. “I don't know, I pretty much tuned out at that point.”

 

“Don't blame you,” Hermione agreed, in a wry tone. “I suppose it'll be nice for Goyle to make a family, I guess.”

 

“Actually...” Harry laughed, incredulous. “He has a girlfriend. And they were going to probably get married, except for this daft law. And guess who it is,” he prompted.

 

Hermione blinked at him, shaking her head a bit. She'd no idea.

 

“Romilda Vane,” he enunciated, his eyebrows shooting up so hard they distorted his scar. When her jaw dropped, he said, “ _Right_? Can you _believe_ it? Apparently she got really into hippogriffs and started showing them, and now she helps him breed. The hippogriffs. Not each other.”

 

“Oh, my God,” she said. “I mean, despite the house difference, I suppose that makes a weird... _weird_ sort of sense.”

 

“I know exactly what you mean. Now that the thought's been put in my head, I can't imagine them with anyone else,” he huffed. “Anyway. It's pretty much just a marriage in name only. Goyle said that no matter what happened, he and Romilda were always going to stay together. She hadn't been matched yet at the time, but _guess who she got matched with on Friday_?”

 

Hermione made a frustrated noise. “Stop making me guess! Just say it,” she snapped.

 

He paused for dramatic effect, and let the silence linger a bit too long.

 

“Harry!” she said, in a warning tone.

 

He exhaled in a gust, and said, spreading his hands across the air like a marquee: “Percival _Ignatius_ Weasley!” he announced, theatrically.

 

Hermione stared. “It really is a small, terrifying little world.”

 

“George told me Percy started crying,” he confided in her, dropping his voice a bit. “You don't suppose it's true? About him being-- male-inclined?”

 

She cut him a glare. “If he is, it's none of your business,” she reminded him, primly.

 

He rolled his eyes. “You're no fun, today.”

 

“I thought I wasn't ever any fun,” she scoffed. “That's what you always say, isn't it?”

 

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “We just say that so you'll feel peer-pressured to do all the wacky stuff we want to do,” he said, absently.

 

“I _knew_ it! So I _am_ fun!”

 

“Well, let's not... you know, go crazy, making declarations like that,” he said, holding up a hand. She picked up a piece of cabbage and flicked it at him, and he froze as it slapped against the lens of his glasses, sticking there like an overcooked booger. “You have no idea just how much you will live to _regret that_.”

 

“Go ahead. Try and duel me in the middle of the cafeteria,” she challenged. “Let the entire world watch your humiliation.”

 

“I'll get you later.”

 

“Coward.”

 

“ _Prat_ ,” he shot back, and she laughed as he cleaned off his glasses.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“When are you going to move into the Manor?” Draco asked, tracing his fingers over her naked hip.

 

She shifted a bit beneath his touch, looking up at her bedroom ceiling as she pretended to think about. “Sometime between no-thirty and never?” she asked, in an innocent tone.

 

“Seriously,” he pushed.

 

“That was serious,” she muttered. Eventually, she sighed, turning to face him. He looked a little wistful, but almost resigned; he'd known how this conversation was going to go, but he'd stubbornly set about starting it up, anyway. “You know how I feel about compromising my personal space.”

 

“The Manor's _huge_ ,” he reminded her, incredulously. “Sometimes I go entire days where I don't see anyone.”

 

“Draco.”

 

“What if I told you that Mum was remodeling the drawing room?” he asked, softly. “You wouldn't even recognize it.”

 

“That's not the only reason.”

 

He rolled onto his back, away from her, and glared up at the ceiling. “I want to live with you,” he said, flatly. They'd been back from Sicily for a little over two weeks, and he came over to her flat almost every night. On the weekends, sometimes she let him stay over. “We're married. It doesn't feel right to have to go somewhere else to sleep after we shag. I should be falling asleep _next_ to you.”

 

“Why?” she demanded. “I mean, just because that's expected of married couples these days doesn't mean we have to do that. You know, back in the day, people slept separately all the time.”

 

“It's not about pureblood ideals, Hermione!” he snapped. “It's about the fact that I _want_ to fall asleep next to you. I want to wake up next to you. I liked that, about our honeymoon. I don't _want_ to give it up.” He sat up, gesturing wildly. “I want to see you when you get home from work. I want to talk about your day, I want-- I want an actual, married _life_.”

 

She sat up, too. “I'm not saying it's never going to happen, Draco,” she defended. “But this whole thing has happened _really_ quickly. If this were a normal relationship, without the law, we wouldn't even be discussing the possibility of moving in for another two years.”

 

“If we _didn't have the law_ , there's not a chance in hell this relationship would even exist,” he growled. “We would have never given each other the time of day. Why don't we stop pretending this is a normal relationship?”

 

Hermione drew back from him, her eyebrows drawing together sharply as the words penetrated. She felt like he'd just slapped her.

 

“No,” he said, hastily. Then, gently, “I didn't mean it like that. I mean, we're not normal. And can't that... be _okay_? Can't we just do what we want without adhering to your rigid standards? For what reason are you deciding that it's 'too early' to do anything, except because you'd decided a long time ago that all relationships had to follow that schedule?”

 

“There's a _reason_ for that schedule,” she huffed, growing annoyed. “You can't rush into _sharing your life_ with someone. You have to get to know them really well before you take that leap. We only started a little over half a year ago--”

 

“I've known you since we were _eleven_!” he exclaimed, throwing the blankets off of him to slip out of bed. It was a Saturday, which usually meant he could sleep over, but he found his underwear and his pants and began yanking them on. “Or does all that time not count because we weren't best friends? No, actually, on second thought: Don't answer. It doesn't matter. Because if the actual amount of time we knew each other _mattered_ , you'd have moved in with Weaselbee _years_ ago, because the only person that could possibly know you better is Potter.”

 

Hermione stared at him as he found his shirt, yanking it on angrily. “That has nothing--”

 

“It has _everything_ to do with it.” His voice was quiet, but coldly angry. “You keep saying that we shouldn't rush into things, but what was your excuse for Ron? This doesn't have a damn thing to do with your self-imposed schedule or some idea that we don't know each other well enough.”

 

“Oh, so I suppose you know what I'm thinking better than me, do you?”

 

He pointed at her after he buttoned up his shirt. He'd missed a button, leaving the entire thing lopsided. Normally, she would have pointed it out, but at the moment, she didn't find it particularly funny. “You're scared,” he said, flatly, his index finger aimed squarely at her stunned face. “You're scared of this, and you're scared of _me_. You're scared of how you feel about me. And this?” He gestured at her flat. “This creation of barriers? This 'having a little hidey-hole' for when you don't feel like being _married_? That's not going to _work_ , for me.”

 

She glared at him incredulously, struggling with the blankets and throwing them off of her so she could follow him as he stormed out of the bedroom. She grabbed her robe and threw it on, tying the waist cinch as she chased him. “I'm not _scared_. It's just bloody daft to make such a huge commitment this early in a relationship. It's _stupid_.”

 

“And you're afraid of being stupid,” he snapped. “You're so afraid of not making the perfect decision every single time that you just stall out and don't make one, at all.”

 

“I'm _making_ a decision! I made it when I said _no_!” She could hear her voice growing shrill.

 

He whirled on her, pointing at her again, and she slapped his hand out of her face. “No, you're not. Because you come here with me, and you let yourself be with me for a couple of hours at a time. You're just being married to me when it's convenient, and then the rest of the time you pretend to be single.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “That is _not_ true,” she ground out.

 

“Really? When was the last time you came over to the Manor?” he asked, eyebrows raising. When she didn't answer, he added, “And how many times have you been invited by myself or my parents? And you're not even busy, because I come _here_.”

 

“I've spent more than enough time there over the last six months, don't you think? So I missed _two weekends_ over there, and now I'm pure evil?”

 

“ _Why_ didn't you come?” he demanded, his voice almost plaintive.

 

She fell silent, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She crossed her arms in front of herself and shrugged a bit. She didn't really know, to be honest. She just hadn't _felt_ like going over. Couldn't it be as simple as that?

 

“Because when you're pretending to be single, you don't have in-laws to go see,” he finished for her.

 

“You're presuming.”

 

“Deny it,” he challenged her, his eyebrows lifting.

 

She stared at him, opening her mouth to do so, but she couldn't get the words out. They seemed stuck in her throat. Finally, she closed her mouth, and he smirked, although he seemed to find no pleasure in besting her, this time.

 

“That's what I thought.”

 

“Draco, don't leave like this,” she sighed, when he headed for the door. “Why don't we talk about it?”

 

“I have a better idea: Take some time and _sort yourself out_ ,” he snapped, turning back to her as he opened the door. “You want your space? You've got it.”

 

Then he was gone. She flinched a bit as the door slammed shut.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Two days passed, and – true to his threat – he hadn't come to see her. And she really didn't want to come crawling back to him begging for forgiveness, mostly because he was being _so ridiculous_. All this because she didn't want to move into the Manor? Absurd.

 

When she got the invite over to Ron and Susan's – she'd moved in with him right after the wedding, leaving Hannah to find a new flatmate – she found herself grateful for the distraction. And since she'd been spending most evenings with Draco, she found that she'd really come to miss her friends. Daily lunch with Harry almost scratched the itch, but not quite.

 

She arrived for dinner with a bottle of wine, blinking to see Ron and Susan standing _right in front of the floo_ , grinning to their ears.

 

Jolting back a bit in surprise, Hermione blinked at them. “What are you doing?”

 

“Hermione,” Susan began.

 

“ _She's pregnant_ ,” Ron exploded. “I got her pregnant. _Me_. I'm going to be a dad! I got her _pregnant_ and now she's going to have a kid and I'll be a _dad_!”

 

Her jaw dropped as Susan laughed, and Hermione tossed the wine bottle on the nearby couch to throw her arms around her friend. “Oh my God,” she gasped, as Ron wrapped his arms around the both of them, squishing them together a bit. “Urgh-- Ron, too hard!”

 

“No, I'm going to _mush you together._ I'm allowed to do that, I'm a _dad_ ,” he said, hugging them harder.

 

“You're gonna squish the baby,” she wheezed. It was patently untrue, but it did get her an immediate release, and she sucked in a ragged breath as she finally stumbled away from Susan. After she caught her breath, she grinned at Ron, and threw her arms around him, also. “Oh, my God, congratulations! How far along are you?”

 

“Just six weeks,” Susan sighed, happily. “I think he or she might have actually been conceived during the honeymoon.”

 

When Ginny and Harry arrived, sans children, they were startled to see Ron, Susan, and Hermione standing _right in front of the floo_ , grinning from ear to ear with excitement.

 

Seconds later, they were all screaming as Ron broke the news, hugging each other in one big, messy group.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Later, she and Ron were doing the dishes as Harry and Ginny talked to Susan about raising children and what to expect from her pregnancy. She listened in idly for a moment, and then turned to Ron. “Ron, can I ask you something?” she asked, softly.

 

“Sure, mate,” he said, using his wand to lift the dishes she'd just rinsed and arranging them on the drying rack. He squinted a bit as he got them to float gently down between the little plastic prongs.

 

“Why do you think we never moved in together?”

 

His eyebrows shot up, and he shot her a speculative look. Then he started to chuckle. “So, he's starting to question that, already, huh? Tell him to wait _four years_. Then I'll let him complain about you being so stingy with your flat. Is that why he wouldn't come, tonight?”

 

“You invited him?” she asked, blinking.

 

Ron shrugged. “Bloke was at my stag party. Only felt right. So are you two fighting, already? You've only been married for a couple of _weeks_.”

 

Hermione sighed, scowling a bit. “He wants me to move into the Manor.”

 

He grimaced. “Don't do that. I wouldn't ever visit,” he complained. “I can't just stroll into _Malfoy Manor_ without an invitation. It'd be so weird.”

 

She huffed a soft laugh. “I said no. He said I was being a coward, basically.”

 

He lifted another rinsed dish out with his wand, peering at her from the corners of her eyes. For a second, he looked like he wasn't sure what to say. Then, he said, quietly: “Do _you_ think you're being a coward?”

 

Hermione hesitated, and groaned. “I just don't want to-- I don't--”

 

“Want to rush into things,” he said, slowly. He'd heard those words so many times over the course of his relationship with her, he even managed to nail her inflection as she'd always said it. “You know, Hermione, being careful and logical and exacting were _fantastic_ qualities during the war, when we were running for our lives and a single misstep would have led to our deaths.” He floated some more dishes out, one at a time. “But it's not wartime, anymore. We've all grown up and grown past it. Even you. And it's okay to make mistakes or rush into things, if you feel like it. The stakes aren't so high, anymore.”

 

“It's not that I'm afraid to make a mistake,” she sighed, rinsing out the last dish. “I just don't want...”

 

“To get close to someone?” he finished for her, a little hesitantly. “I'd say you were afraid of being hurt, you know, because it's Malfoy... but I don't think that's it, is it? Because you couldn't have been scared of _me_ hurting you. And you wouldn't take things to the next level with me, either.”

 

“What's wrong with me, then?” she whispered.

 

He burst out laughing. “Nothing!” he said, promptly, and folded his arms around her. He pressed her cheek to his chest, to his heart, and ran his hand over her hair in that fond way he'd used to, when they were together. “Absolutely nothing. You're wonderful. Sometimes a little too wonderful. Freaks me out.”

 

She snorted, and he pulled back to smile at her. “Shut up.”

 

“No. I'm going to sing your praises until I'm dead,” he said, firmly. He sobered a bit, and said, softly: “Do you want to know what I really think?”

 

Hermione felt her mouth go dry, but she nodded. Whatever it was, she needed to hear it.

 

“I think you're scared to open up to people because you're worried that you may end up being dependent on them,” he murmured. “And you've always been so independent. You've never needed anyone. And I think you're scared of a future in which you do.”

 

She sucked in a ragged breath. “You're not supposed to be wise, Ron Weasley.”

 

“I've been wise as _blazes_ for years and it's just that no one will _listen_ to me,” he complained, bitterly. “Everything I say is right.”

 

Laughing, she rested her forehead against his chest, again.

 

“I think what you'll discover if you let yourself do it, Hermione, is that it's... actually really, really nice to need someone,” he whispered. He was stroking her hair again. “To feel that kind of pull towards a person, where just seeing them makes you feel like you've drunk a liter of Felix Felicis... it's pretty wonderful.”

 

“Was Susan the first time you've ever depended on someone like that?” she wondered, quietly.

 

“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “Harry and I have been depending on you for _years_. So, you know, maybe that's our fault. Maybe we depended on you so hard that you couldn't bring yourself to depend back. Maybe you had to always be the strong one, the one with all the answers. And I guess if that's true, then we really didn't do right by you.”

 

“I loved being needed,” she admitted.

 

“Well, we loved needing you,” he said, warmly, his arms tightening around her briefly.

 


	50. A Universal Solvent

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty: A Universal Solvent**

 

…

 

 _Come to coffee tomorrow_.

 

She didn't bother signing or addressing the owl, just sent it off before heading back to her desk. After four mornings without sharing coffee with Draco, she was _almost_ prepared to admit to herself that she missed him. Almost. But no matter what she was prepared to admit, she'd shown up every day in the vain hopes he'd be there, and sat the entire hour by herself, looking so pathetic that the waitress wouldn't even _charge_ her.

 

As she headed back to her cubicle, she stopped short when she had a visitor. Groaning when she recognized that brilliantly blond long hair, she quickly dipped away from her office again. She did _not_ have the energy to deal with Lucius Malfoy, today.

 

The second she turned, though, she saw Blaise – not heading for her, but if he saw her, he'd undoubtedly want to bother her.

 

She warred with herself for only a second before she turned and stomped back to her desk.

 

“It's _not_ my fault,” she said, promptly, as Lucius turned to greet her with a raised eyebrow. “We just had a difference of _opinion_ , so there's no need for you to step in and try to fix anything.”

 

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Hermione stared at him, her mouth falling open a bit. He looked so entirely nonplussed, she almost _immediately_ realized that he knew nothing of her fight with his son. “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Not a thing. I thought you were someone else. You look _just like_ this bloke I know.”

 

Her father-in-law's eyebrows lifted. “Are you and Draco arguing, again?”

 

“Oh, don't say _again_ , like we never do anything else,” she snapped. “We have plenty of moments where we are _not_. What _are_ you doing here, if it's not to meddle?”

 

“I heard about one of your proposed legislations,” he said, smoothly, running his fingers over the snakehead of his cane. Honestly, the man had a _very_ inappropriate relationship with that thing. It also made her uncomfortable to watch him interact with it. “I was hoping to discuss it over lunch.”

 

“Which one?” she asked, suspiciously.

 

He declined to answer. “Where would you like to eat? I've already informed the Potter boy that you'd be unavailable. I understand you typically take your midday meal with him.”

 

The Malfoys were an absolute _pox_ on normal society. She sighed through her teeth. “Wherever. I've only got an hour,” she reminded him. “So nowhere that's going to take more than two courses. I have a lot of stuff to do, today.”

 

He inclined his head, letting her tidy up her desk and grab her things before leading the way out.

 

They'd ended up at a pub, much to Lucius' endless distaste and her similarly endless delight. Just watching him fidget uncomfortably in the seats (after getting verbal confirmation from no less than three employees that they were, in fact, clean) almost made the whole thing bearable. She ordered fish and chips and pumpkin juice, which she sipped on as she waited for him to start.

 

“One of your recent proposals is to undo the law placed in effect a few years ago disallowing werewolves from pursuing jobs,” he said, with no preamble.

 

Hermione stiffened, any good humor leaving her. “If you're here to convince me to let it drop,” she said, in an icy tone. “I won't. And if you're going to fight me on it, I hope you're aware that I'll probably permanently lose my invitation to your home.”

 

Blinking at the cold rebuttal, Lucius said, slowly, “Actually, I noticed some issues with the wordings of your documents that will imperil the motion.” When she just stared at him, speechless, he continued: “I would like to advocate for werewolf rights. Your motion will be summarily denied due to its language issues, but I can help you in drafting a new one.”

 

 _Help_ her?

 

She'd read somewhere that it was impossible to tell time in a dream. She looked around the pub for a clock and squinted at it. 12:23pm.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow again.

 

Hermione turned back to him, still not quite over the way the conversation had turned. “Um... Nothing. What language issues?”

 

“You focus heavily on the personal and ethical rights of the werewolves. Many wizards and witches suffered werewolf attacks during the war – especially against their children, thanks to Greyback. You should know better than to think they'll be swayed by a plea to their common decency.” She felt her face flush at the profound disappointment that marred his tone, like she'd just failed a school assignment. Then he said, in a magnanimous tone: “I will provide you with an opportunity to regain my esteem of your intelligence: What _will_ sway those who are filled with hate?”

 

She frowned as she thought. _Not_ that she gave a _damn_ what Lucius Malfoy thought of her intelligence. Except she did, of course. She always cared what people thought about her intelligence. “Doesn't it vary from person to person?” she tried. It could be money, or power, or-- whatever, really.

 

“No,” he said, flatly. He salted his pasta calmly as he arrived (he'd gotten the one thing on the menu that wouldn't require his hands to eat, even though eating pub pasta was a guaranteed bad time).

 

She broke apart some of her fried fish to try and cool the insides, something that her mother had always done for her as a child. She did it by habit, now, watching the steam escape the moist, white meat. She stared at it as it curled into the air and dissipated, and her eyes narrowed a bit. “Fear,” she finally decided. She glanced up at him for confirmation.

 

He inclined his head in approval. “Very good.”

 

“So you're proposing I make them _afraid_?” she asked, skeptically. “First of all, how am I meant to do that? And secondly, won't that achieve the _opposite_ of what I want? Fear is what made them pass the stupid law in the first place.”

 

“That's because they were made to fear the werewolves' presence,” he explained, calmly. “You will do the opposite.”

 

“Make them fear their _absence_?” He sounded barmy.

 

He inclined his head. “What is worse? Seeing a poisonous spider in your home, or: Seeing a poisonous spider in your home, leaving to get something to smash it to death with, and then returning to discover that it's gone?”

 

She poured some vinegar on her fish, staring at him as she let the implications fully sink in. “You're a real twisty bastard,” she finally said, and he gave her an elegant lift of his shoulders. “Won't that lead to more restrictive laws? Like a registry, the government keeping tabs on them all?”

 

“Yes. The registry cannot be avoided,” he added. “The only thing that has kept the Ministry from achieving said registry is the fact that they've essentially forced all werewolves into hiding. That is how you will sway them: If they provide equal opportunities for werewolves to lead actual _lives_ in Wizarding Britain, they will then have the means to watch them.”

 

“That's disgusting,” she whispered.

 

Lucius cast her a quelling look. “You can work on abolishing Ministry surveillance later,” he reminded her. “You wanted a foot in the door to pass this motion; I have provided it.”

 

She hesitated. “But... I'll basically be inviting them out of hiding to put them in a _cage_ ,” she said, almost plaintively.

 

“Change cannot be achieved in a single law. I implore you to leave behind your naïve assumption that good always triumphs and that having the proper intentions will ensure your moral victories,” he sighed. He was eating his pasta delicately. She could tell that he hated it. “This is the _first step_ to achieving equal rights.”

 

“By making up a thin mockery of it, first?”

 

He inclined his head again, just barely. “Precisely.”

 

She inhaled deeply, and let it all out in a rush. “I'll need to think about this,” she finally murmured, poking at her chips. She'd need to talk it over with someone – Harry, probably. She wasn't sure if she could fully get behind the mentality of _the ends justify the means_ , which was arguably a mentality that the Malfoys had been riding for centuries.

 

“I expected no less.”

 

Hermione nibbled at her fish, and then changed the subject. She didn't want to give him an opportunity to sway her by her passion for the project, although to his credit, he didn't seem interested in manipulating her. He'd laid out the facts rather neatly and without the usual slimy use of emotional verbage to appeal to her sense of justice.

 

She wondered if he really wanted to help her achieve rights for werewolves. The alternatives were that he wanted the werewolf registry, and (most likely) Draco had brought it up and asked him to provide patronage.

 

“How's Narcissa?” she asked, eager to stop thinking about it for a second.

 

“Excellent. She is very interested in seeing you this weekend. Can we presume your attendance at tea on Saturday?” he asked. His eyes flicked up to hers. “Hopefully you are not as busy this weekend as you were the previous three?”

 

Hermione flushed. “Alright, quit it,” she muttered. “I'll come. No need for the guilt trip.”

 

Looking pleased with himself, Lucius sipped at his little glass of Firewhiskey, neat, and choked down another horrible bite of pub spaghetti.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As soon as five o'clock hit, she was running from her cubicle. It was probably the most promptly she'd _ever_ left, and her coworkers stared as she trotted briskly down the corridor and out of sight. Thirty seconds later, she was across the Ministry, planting herself on the edge of Harry's desk. The Auror department didn't even provide the luxury of cubicles; it was just a sea of desks surrounded by the few important blokes that deserved an office.

 

“So,” she said, sitting down on some of his paperwork. He startled, making an annoyed nose as he slid the papers free of her arse and set them aside. “Here's a riddle for you: What would drive Lucius Malfoy to seek me out in order to achieve equal rights for werewolves?”

 

“The Imperius Curse?”

 

“Maybe. Think outside the box, because this has been bugging me all day,” she ordered.

 

Harry turned to her, finally, her words penetrating his preoccupation with his work for the first time. “Wait. He's really trying to help you get _werewolves_ recognized as equal citizens?” When she nodded, he turned to face her fully. “Tell me everything.”

 

It took about ten minutes to do so, since he kept interrupting her with questions. But finally, she'd gotten through it all, and heaved a sigh when she was done. When she took in his stunned look, she said, “I know, right?”

 

“Why does he want to help?” was his first question.

 

“No idea. Draco knows I'm pushing for equal rights. He might have asked him to,” she admitted. “The point is, I know that Lucius' plan could _work_... but would it be worth it, in the end?”

 

Harry hesitated. “I don't know,” he finally said, honestly. “I guess that's something for later generations to decide. I mean, certainly in the Muggle world, there has been some very iffy laws that came about in the pursuit of equality, right? I guess you have to... start somewhere,” he finished, lamely. He didn't like the sound of it, either; it chafed at his ethical sensibilities.

 

However, the alternative was that no change happened at all.

 

“I don't want to be in the history books as the evil witch who required a werewolf registry,” she whispered.

 

He inhaled deeply. “Then,” he said, consideringly. “If you did decide to go through with this plan, you'd just have to start working on abolishing it as soon as it passed.”

 

“Of course I'd do that, but...” She shook her head.

 

Smiling softly, he patted her knee. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Hermione,” he reminded her. “And before you ask me, no, I don't know what the right decision is. I don't think anyone does. You just have to do what _feels_ right, I guess.”

 

“Isn't that what the Death Eaters were doing?” she snipped.

 

“Not according to their trial notes,” he said, with a shrug. She pursed her lips a bit as he finished up his work. “Right, let's get out of here. I'm now mad at you for making me spend an extra twenty minutes in the Ministry building. You're supposed to be my _friend_.”

 

She laughed as she led the way out, heading to his house with him to say hi to the boys.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione was unspeakably relieved when she came into the coffee shop the next morning and Draco was there. She stood by the door, sighing a bit as the emotion swamped her. She waited for the worst of it to pass before she approached him, digging around in her pocket as she chewed the insides of her lips.

 

He looked up when she approached, his eyebrows lifting in that imperious way of his, and she felt her heart flutter a bit. She really _was_ too far gone. There was no saving herself from it, now.

 

She pulled her hand out of her pocket and held it out to him.

 

Dangling from her fingers was a little copper-colored key. It was identical to the one _she_ had. She held it out so seriously, that for a second Draco just stared at it, wondering if it was cursed or a Portkey or something.

 

“What is that?” he finally asked.

 

“It's a key to my flat,” she said, and she felt a little short of breath when she said it. Of course, the moment was ruined when he just squinted at her in utter bewilderment.

 

“I use the Floo to get in your flat.”

 

She groaned in pure frustration. “It's _symbolic_ , you _nit_.” She grabbed his hand and forced the key into it.

 

“Symbolic for _what_?” he demanded, staring at it. He couldn't imagine what he'd ever need this stupid thing for. Hell, all he had to do to get in the front door – were he so inclined to go in that way, which he was _not_ , really – was unward the damn thing and _Alohamora_ it.

 

“I'm inviting you-- in,” she finished, lamely. “To... come in whenever you want. And leave whenever you want,” she muttered, picking at the edge of the table as she avoided his eyes. “Or not leave. Whichever you want.”

 

He was silent for a long time, and she chanced a glance up at him. He was looking at the key in a new light, recalling that Muggles had _only_ locks and keys to guard their precious possessions. He folded his fingers around it, leaning his elbows on the table. “You want me to move in with you?” he asked. The beginnings of a smirk touched his lips. “Did you miss me?”

 

“I'm not here to pander to your ego,” she said, tersely, but she felt all the tension leave her when he laughed.

 

When the laugh died away, he sobered. “Do you really want this?”

 

She hesitated, and his eyes grew guarded, and she hastened to assure him: “I'm just thinking about how to say it, Draco. I wouldn't have made this decision if I didn't _want_ to. I just... I like coming home to you, too, you know. And waking up next to you. As long as you remembered the cooling charm.”

 

He laughed again. “My mother's going to have a fit,” he said, looking down at the key. “She's been angling for you to move into the Manor since the beginning. And instead, I'll be moving out. She'll lose it.”

 

“So you are coming?” she asked, softly, heaving another sigh of relief.

 

Draco smiled. “We'll have to extend your closet,” he said, by way of answer. “And I want _real_ plates to eat off of, not your hodgepodge of hand-me-downs.”

 

“You're _not_ bringing your whole wardrobe, surely,” she said, making a face.

 

“Half and half.”

 

“Also, how dare you, about my plates. My plates are just fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “They were my parents' plates from their first flat together.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “They are _falling apart_ and chipped on the edges. One of these days, you'll put a piece of toast on them and they'll just disintegrate right in your hands. Besides, what if we invite people over? You're going to serve them on those things?”

 

“You're not even moved in yet, and you're already planning _dinner parties_?”

 

“I like to socialize,” he drawled, spooning some sugar into their newly arrived coffee. He didn't, really – or he did, about as much as Hermione did – but he enjoyed watching the procession of emotions travel across her face at the thought of her home turning into a place of hospitality for his Slytherin friends.

 

She picked up her croissant. “I regret _so many things_ about this, already.”

 

“No, you don't,” he disagreed, mirth warming his tone. He sipped his coffee, and said, “Can I start coming in tomorrow?”

 

“You can start today. But don't move my stuff,” she added, shooting him a narrow look. “Just bring yours over in boxes and we'll figure out where to put it.” Already the idea of having to move her flat, already full of her life, around to accommodate another person was threatening to give her an anxiety attack. She had everything _just the way she liked it_.

 

He rolled his eyes. “I'll put my clothes away and then pile everything else under the bed where you won't have to see it,” he muttered, sarcastically.

 

“That's not a bad plan--” she began, but she stopped at the sharp look he gave her. “Al _right_. Put it on the coffee table, and I'll figure out where it needs to go.”

 

“Can I bring my potions bench? I'm working on something right now.”

 

He was? Hermione shot him a curious look, wanting to ask, but he was so cagey about his hobby that she wasn't sure if she wanted to ask him about it during this delicate negotiation. Maybe he'd be forced to share it with her if it was in her flat. “There's that space by the Floo, if you just move the recliner out of the way a bit.”

 

He nodded, and silence reigned for a moment.

 

“Aren't you going to ask?” he finally sighed. “It's weird, if you don't.”

 

“What are you working on?” she asked, _promptly_.

 

“My acceptance,” he said, a bit smugly. When she frowned, he added, slowly: “To the Egyptian Centre for Alchemical Studies. They said my NEWTs pre-qualify me to apply to one of their graduate programs.”

 

She let her jaw drop. “Oh my _God_ , Draco, that's amazing!”

 

“Yes, I know,” he said, basking in her attention. When she flicked a piece of croissant at him, he caught it and put it in his mouth. “I so frequently do amazing things that it's a wonder it surprises you, anymore.”

 

“Shut up before you ruin the moment. Congratulations,” she added, grinning. Then her grin faded. “So would you have to move there?”

 

He shook his head. “I'd have to go in occasionally to attend some lectures, but you can do the programs by owl otherwise. I'd probably have to Portkey there a few times a month. I may just apply for my International Apparation license,” he muttered. Then he shook his head. “I suppose the Portkeys will do.” It was a safer method of travel, ultimately, and usually only Aurors or high-level Ministry officials actually got approved for International Apparation.

 

“I'm so proud of you,” she sighed. She felt like she was gushing, but she couldn't help but be excited for him. “So, what are you brewing for acceptance?”

 

He shook his head. “It's not a brew, it's an essay. But I need to brew to write it. The entrance essay is to prove or disprove the existence of a universal solvent. There's a few recipes in some ancient books in the library that are purported to produce it. If any of them work, though, they'll probably have to condemn your flat.”

 

“Do _not_ condemn my flat to seek the alkahest,” she said, firmly. “Or I'll be _very_ annoyed.”

 

“I asked you to move into the Manor, which I could have ruined instead, but you _refused_ ,” he reminded her, with a shrug. “I can't be held responsible for what happens from this point forward.”

 

“You are so amazingly obnoxious,” she muttered.

 

“And you missed me.”

 

“I have never felt more at peace then when you were _finally_ gone,” she sniffed, but she returned his grin. “By the way, Susan's pregnant.”

 

“I heard. I sent them my congratulations through owl,” he assured her.

 

“And your father is trying to help me pass pro-werewolf legislation.” She watched his face carefully, not really surprised when he just nodded. “So what did you do, ask him to help me?”

 

He shook his head. “No, I just told him it was something you were working on. Actually, if we're being _honest_ , I was ranting about what a loony bin you were for wanting to unleash them all on wizarding society,” he said, but he held up his hand when she started to protest, stalling her. “So imagine _my_ surprise when he agrees with you! Said that the anti-werewolf sentiments were just some political maneuvers from the Dark Lord's camp to ensure their loyalty to Voldemort's side.”

 

Hermione stared at him, disquieted. It wasn't as though she'd never suspected that, but to have Lucius admit it was a different story. “I suppose he was behind it?”

 

“Grandfather dearest, actually.”

 

She grumbled. “ _Why_ is your family pretty much the most easily despicable family in all of Europe? Seriously. Did you lot set about to try and make sure you were as universally hated as possible?”

 

“The only people that hated us were people that didn't matter,” he pointed out. “We got on just fine with the other slimy politicians.”

 

“Awful. So, he really believes in werewolf rights?”

 

Draco grimaced a bit, kind of wavering his hand in a _so-so_ gesture. “I think it's more accurate to say that he doesn't _disbelieve_ in them,” he said, shrugging again. “I think he's more excited about the possibility of grooming you into a real politician and is willing to capitalize on something he knows you're passionate about.”

 

“He's not grooming me into a little mini-Malfoy, so you can tell him to forget it.”

 

“Don't be silly. He likes you,” Draco assured her, in the same simple matter-of-fact tone that Narcissa had once used to say the same thing. Almost dismissive. “He thinks you have potential and hates seeing it squandered on your idealism.”

 

She rolled her eyes, although she was a little relieved that there wasn't something more insidious hiding behind Lucius' assistance. The man was hard to trust. “So you think he's actually trying to help?” she asked, keenly. She wanted to believe that the help was genuine, if only because she knew she could use Lucius' political mind to great advantage. She wasn't sure she wanted him publicly advocating for her, because that might make everything she did look suspect, but she'd be an idiot if she didn't think he was one of the smartest men she'd ever met.

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed, firmly. “Not really for the right reasons, but he's not trying to achieve anything else through this. I promise.”

 

Hermione nodded, willing to accept that. After all, she'd vowed to trust him, hadn't she? “Good,” she said, softly. “Because honestly, I'm beginning to rethink my policy of not accepting any help.”

 

“ _Finally_ ,” he muttered. “Watching you spend your whole life struggling would have been torture.”

 

“Oh, shut it. Tell me more about the alchemical program.”

 

He did, and that easily filled the rest of their hour. Basically, the program he was interested in would lend him the credentials to be recognized as an expert in the field; he'd be able to pursue research that required government permission, he'd be able to teach others (if he were so inclined, which he admitted he was not very), and he might even be invited to join a summit of other alchemical minds. She hadn't seen him this excited about something since their honeymoon.

 

She couched her chin in her hand as he spoke, gesturing as he did so, his eyes lit up. She felt contentment coil in her belly, and for the first time since all this began, the sensation didn't make her feel anxious.

 


	51. Surprises & Cake (FIXED! SORRY EVERYONE)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOAH GUYS!
> 
> I don't know what happened BUT half of my chapter got deleted apparently! Or maybe I just posted half and was too tired to notice! I'm VERY sorry!!
> 
> When I tried to fix it, the formatting broke, so I had to delete the whole chapter and repost it -- and I think that deleted your comments, too. I'm SO SO SORRY EVERYONE!

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-One: Surprises & Cake**

 

…

 

When she came home that night, it was to the disconcerting and thrilling sight of Draco sitting in her living room amidst some boxes. As she stepped out of the Floo, she took in the potions bench and all the boxes in one fell swoop. There were a _lot_ more boxes than she'd really anticipated. “Are some of these clothes?” she asked, a little hopefully.

 

“No, I put those away,” he assured her. “I put an extendable charm on your closet.”

 

Oh, God. So all of these boxes were _other stuff_. Taking a deep breath, Hermione summoned a smile. “Great,” she said, determined to be positive about this. “Let me just get changed really quick, and we'll start sorting through. Alright?”

 

He nodded, opening up one of the boxes as she moved past him to her room.

 

Once inside, she closed the door and leaned on it. So: This was really happening. Draco was going to be _living_ there. In her space. She couldn't tell if she was going to get frustrated by his constant presence or not; certainly she hadn't liked it when he'd stayed over that week months prior. But they were in a better place, now. Right?

 

She hoped so.

 

Changing quickly, Hermione pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail before joining him in the living room. He'd already unpacked some books, and she smiled a bit. _Those_ , she could make room for. She hoped she hadn't read them, yet. “Okay. Do you, um...” She glanced at her bookshelf. “How do you want to do this? Do you want your own shelf, or should we just... mix them in?”

 

“Does that matter?” he asked, a little doubtfully. At her face, though, he quickly redacted his incredulity. “Mix them in,” he suggested. “I wouldn't want to put your filing system out of order.”

 

“But how will we know which ones are yours when...”

 

She trailed off, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly, his eyelids drooping a bit. Hermione scowled when she realized that he _knew_ what she was referring to, and he was just going to sit there and make her _say_ it. When she didn't, he prompted: “When...?”

 

“Nevermind,” she muttered.

 

He smiled a bit, and returned to his box, pulling out the rest of his books.

 

She ended up having to take some of her books out to make space for his, and she took _forever_ to select the ones that would be relegated to the closet with the other ones that had failed to make the grade. While she did that, he unboxed some more of his potions tools, some notebooks that were filled with his tight, somewhat-spiky handwriting, and some trinkets.

 

When he pulled the dishes out, he bore her glare stoically. They were nice, and undoubtedly pilfered from the Manor.

 

“ _This_ is happening,” he informed her, flatly. “Where do you want them?”

 

Sighing through her teeth, she led the way into the kitchen, and they spent a good half an hour re-organizing everything to find a spot for his Nice Dishes, which would only make an appearance when needed. She had a feeling they'd gradually start being 'needed' more and more often, while he slowly disposed of the dishes he hated to make room for more.

 

The glasses he'd brought inspired _another_ total reorganizing. Finally, though, most of the major stuff was put away; there was only his wizarding chess set (she decided it could stay on the built-in shelf below the main surface of the coffee table) and then his decorations.

 

The trinkets she split as evenly as she could around the main rooms, scattered amidst hers. He had a trophy for winning some Quidditch league game when he'd been a child. He had some little figurines that had a well-loved look to them, like he'd spent most of his life rubbing them for good luck. The only thing that inspired any sort of argument was his Falmouth Falcons poster, which had been framed and put under glass.

 

Neither of those things raised its esteem, in her opinion. “I'm not putting a stupid poster up,” she huffed. “Posters are for teenagers and people with an unhealthy obsession with music.”

 

“It's framed!” he argued. “And it's _vintage_ , it's from the 1960s!”

 

“It's a _poster_.”

 

“You said I could bring my things. Is this my flat, now, or isn't it?” he demanded, sharply. Hermione's face pinched, and he clutched at the poster tightly, almost as though it were a child he were protecting from a murderer.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Bedroom,” she compromised, lips thinning.

 

He brightened, his eyebrows bouncing. “Right above the bed? You need the boys to wish you luck?”

 

“In a second, it's going out the window,” she warned.

 

“Above the bed, it is,” he said, happily, and he strode into her bedroom before she could argue any more about it. She watched him disappear and looked around the room, swallowing another sigh.

 

She really was being a bad sport about this. He'd barely brought anything at all, really; the changes to the living room were minute, aside from the potions bench. And she didn't even have an objection to _that_ ; it was practical to have it there. “You wanted this,” she reminded herself, in an undertone. And it was true. A part of her _did_ want Draco to live there with her. The problem was the other part of her, _screaming_ about how her space had been invaded by a little blond ferret.

 

“It looks good!” he called from the bedroom.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Doubtful,” she muttered. Then, raising her voice, “Listen, I'm getting a bit peckish. Want to go out? Somewhere casual.”

 

He re-appeared in the corridor, looking positively _delighted_ to be there, playing house with her. It made her heart thump a little harder than normal, and she felt herself starting to smile in spite of the doubts beginning to build in her chest. “Sounds great,” he agreed, striding towards her. He didn't stop, though, and she stumbled a few steps back before he pinned her against the back of the couch, his hands planting against the fabric on either side of her. He leaned in, rubbing his nose against hers before pressing his lips against hers in a leisurely kiss. “Mrs. Malfoy,” he finished, in a pleased purr.

 

“I will never get used to that,” she murmured, amused.

 

“I'll make sure to say it more often.”

 

“No need,” she assured him. When he was standing so close, brushing his lips against hers, all the misgivings she'd started mentally compiling began to fade into the background of her mind.

 

He kissed her again, soft and sweet. “Yes, need,” he disagreed. “Mrs. Malfoy. My wife.”

 

“Oh, no,” she sighed.

 

“Yes,” he answered her unspoken question. “Yes, I am going to refer to you as my wife. To _everyone_. To every single person we pass on the street. I will talk about my wife _constantly_ so that everyone is aware that I have one. It's very important that word get around.”

 

“The full-page spread in the _Prophet_ was insufficient to do that?”

 

The page had been riddled with pictures of their wedding. The largest was the one they'd taken of her and Draco right after the ceremony; she looked stiff and camera shy, her eyes falling away from the camera and drifting up to her new husband, whom she seemed to lean into for support. Draco looked quite at home, his handsome face boasting a perfectly even smile. As she leaned into him, his hand tightened around her shoulder, rubbing it slightly in a comforting gesture.

 

The other pictures were of them dancing, her grinning up at him ecstatically as they moved through their first waltz, and some of them talking to their friends or family. There was one of Harry, who couldn't seem to escape media attention no matter _where_ he went. He looked agitated in the picture, turning away from the camera lens purposefully as soon as his eyes flicked over it. Beyond him, Ginny glared reproachfully at the shutterbug. There was even one of Ron with his wife, both of them looking happily at each other as the caption drew attention to the fact that Hermione and Ron had been in a long-term relationship before the law came about.

 

The story was mostly about the wedding itself; it mentioned that the ceremony had been private, and had nothing more to say about that. It detailed the events of the reception, including the fact that Hermione looked noticeably choked up during the first dance. Then it seemed to go to a trite place, lingering on the decorations and the food and beverage offered, as well as some notable attendees.

 

All in all, she was glad it didn't have any sordid rumors.

 

“Hermione! You're drifting,” Draco chided her, sighing in exasperation.

 

She blinked. “Sorry. What?”

 

“I said, no, a full-page spread wasn't enough. We should have made the _front page_ ,” he huffed. He pushed off the couch, turning to grab her hand in his and lead her to the front door. “Since when is a Malfoy _wedding_ third-page material?”

 

“Since the war ended and nobody cared what you lot were up to,” she said, in a dry tone.

 

“That's a travesty.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Let's go to the sandwich place down in Diagon Alley,” she suggested. “The new one. Have you been, yet?” He shook his head. “Okay, there, then. I'm really in the mood for a good sandwich.” His eyebrows lifted a bit, and Hermione smacked his shoulder. “Don't be a pervert.”

 

“I didn't _say_ anything!”

 

“I could practically _hear you_ thinking it!”

 

“You're just making wild accusations,” he defended, in an innocent tone. “Get some proof, and we will address the matter.”

 

She shook her head. “You're a prat.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They stepped out of the sandwich shop with their sandwiches, all wrapped up and ready to go. It was sort of nice out, and Hermione had reasoned that they didn't have many more days left of sunny evenings; she could already feel the days getting noticeably shorter. The sun was setting when she plopped down on a bench in a little park, containing only a duck pond and the requisite bench for throwing bread. He sat beside her, unwrapping his sandwich carefully and eying it for a moment, trying to decide the best method of attack.

 

Draco had gone the “I Want Everything” route with the sandwich, and right now it was sitting about four inches thick, ready to fall to pieces the very second he put his teeth to it. Hermione, wise to the ways of the sandwich, had a much more manageable dinner. She took a bite as he did, and heard him let loose a muffled curse.

 

Smiling, she glanced at him from the corners of her eyes as he quickly tried to nibble the sandwich back into shape.

 

After swallowing, she said, “You know, I don't think I've _ever_ seen you look so undignified. You think if I got your father a sandwich, he'd eat it?” The image was just _delectable_.

 

“Father doesn't eat with his hands,” Draco informed her, confirmed what she'd long suspected. “He might take a knife and fork to it.”

 

“Which would look just about as ridiculous as picking it up.”

 

He shrugged. “Not to hear him tell it.”

 

She reached up, using her thumb to wipe away some mayonnaise that was stuck near the corner of his mouth. He froze up a bit at the gesture, and then gave her a close, almost _shrewd_ look. For some reason, his scrutiny made her face heat, and she quickly turned her attention back to her own sandwich. “I'd like to see it, either way. We're taking him to a sandwich shop.”

 

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you are obsessed with my father,” he accused.

 

“Why, because I spend every waking moment thinking about him?” she asked, innocently. “That's ridiculous. Don't be paranoid.”

 

“Don't _joke_ about that,” Draco whined. “Do you have any idea how much prattling I had to listen to, at school? Every girl in the dungeons fancied him. And it was my _dad_.”

 

“Not just the dungeons,” she muttered.

  
“ _What_?” he demanded.

 

Hermione laughed. “Sorry, his appeal was more widespread than Slytherin. I mean, him being a snob didn't endear him to anyone, but, you know, a teenage girl doesn't need a man to be endearing. Just cute.”

 

“ _Do not call my father 'cute'_ ,” he exclaimed. “I'm trying to _eat_.”

 

“Is 'handsome' alright?”

 

“No!” he yelled, indignantly.

 

“'Fetching'?”

 

Draco closed his eyes, making an aggravated noise deep in his throat. “First of all, don't say that about _any_ man. That is a compliment for women. Secondly? No. Absolutely bloody not. I swear, he lends you one little book on prehistoric runes, and you're sitting there going all moony over him like some schoolgirl.”

 

“Well, his hair's just so _lustrous_.” She really shouldn't tease, but sometimes it was just plain fun to watch Draco get worked up.

 

“Stop. It,” he growled, taking another monstrous bite of his sandwich. A dab of mustard caught against the corner of his lip again, and she leaned in impulsively and kissed the spot, flicking her tongue over it to lick it away in the split second she was there.

 

Pulling back to catch the open surprise on his face, she said, “Of course, you're _much_ more handsome.”

 

He brightened a bit. “I think that's the first time you called me handsome without me twisting your arm,” he said, some of his former cheer returning.

 

“That's not true. I've called you handsome--”

 

“'Cute.' You used 'cute.'”

 

“Same difference.”

 

“I don't even have the energy to argue with you about the vast _world_ of difference between those two words,” he said, incredulous. “If the difference isn't apparent to you, now, I'll probably have to re-teach you English _entirely_ , because something fundamental got lost in translation during your childhood years.”

 

She huffed. “You know what, I take it back. Your father's a regal fairy prince from another realm. You are a weed that grows in his splendid shade.”

 

“Oh, it's far too late for _that_.” He scooted a little closer, throwing his arm over her shoulders so she couldn't lean away as he planted a warm kiss against the soft bit of downy skin in between her cheek and ear. “Consider my ego stroked.”

 

“That'll be the only thing getting stroked tonight.”

 

“Don't threaten me,” he muttered into her ear, closing his teeth over her earlobe briefly – just for the length of time it took for him to register the very soft shudder she gave. Smirking, he pulled back, obviously taking that as a victory.

 

As they finished their sandwiches, she tossed some of the leftover bread to the swarming ducks. He refused, stating simply that they looked 'fat enough.'

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After eating, the first night together went peacefully. She cast the cooling charm and pressed against him. Feeling his arms fold around her felt a lot better – more _right_. Instead of suffocating, she felt comforted. She wasn't sure how much of it was the cooling charm and how much of it was simply him. Instead of pondering on it, she let her eyes drift shut, tired from her long day.

 

The next thing she knew, she was waking up to the smell of something burning. Jolting up in a panic, it took her a few seconds to recognize the smell as that of burning _bacon_.

 

Sunlight filtered dimly through her window, cold and blue in the early dawn. Hermione slipped out of bed, drawing her robe around her as she followed the smell out into the hallway, and then into the kitchen. There, she beheld the _miraculous_ sight of Draco Malfoy muttering furiously to himself as he lifted blackened bits out of the skillet, dumping them onto a plate he'd set beside the stove. She let her eyes drift from that scene to the other side of the counter, where an egg – dropped on the counter and cracked – sat in a small cloud of flour. One of her mother's old cookbooks was propped up behind the sink's faucet. It was open to “Easy Peasy Pancakes!”

 

“ _What_ are you doing?” she asked, her voice a little scratchy from just waking up.

 

Draco jolted and turned, looking briefly guilty before he scowled. “This is why we need an elf!” he said, defensively. “What am I supposed to do if I get hungry?”

 

“ _Learn_ to cook?” Hermione suggested, her eyes widening a bit.

 

“I suppose there's a _cooking Hogwarts_ I can attend, is there?” he huffed, glaring bitterly at the mess he'd made in her kitchen. He turned back to the stove, and knocked against the handle of the skillet, nearly sending what looked like a full cup of molten bacon fat all over the floor. Exclaiming in shock, he quickly grabbed the _side_ of the skillet, and swore _profusely_ as said bacon fat splashed all over his hands. “Fuck!” he yelled, throwing the skillet back against the stove with an explosive clatter as he recoiled from the stove entirely, shaking his burned hands.

 

She gasped, darting forward and holding her hand to ward off the little droplets of molten fat he was flinging around. Grabbing a dish towel, she quickly wiped the grease off of his hands, pulling him towards the sink and yanking the cool water on. She dragged his hand under the water, listening to him swear viciously under his breath.

 

“See, this is exactly what I was talking about,” he muttered. “Nearly killed myself.”

 

Hermione stared up at him, holding his wrist in place so that his hand remained under the running water. Then, she felt a smile spread across her face, lingering there for a second before she started laughing. “Oh, my God. Draco,” she managed to wheeze in between bouts of laughter. His scowl intensified dangerously, and she quickly threaded her arm around his, smoothing her hands soothingly over his forearm. “As a matter of fact, there _are_ such things as cooking classes. Let's look at some, today.”

 

“There are?” he asked, suspiciously.

 

She nodded. “Lots of Muggles need help with learning how to cook properly,” she said, hoping to soothe his wounded ego. “It's a very difficult skill to acquire.”

 

He seemed to relax a bit at the reassurance. “It does seem hard,” he agreed, looking both pompous and relieved.

 

She pulled his hand out from the water, drying it with ginger motions, and pulled him to the bathroom to spread some toothpaste on it. “Sorry, I don't have any aloe. This should help,” she said, smearing the tacky cream over the red areas. Then, once she was done, she lifted his hand and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckle. “There.”

 

“What was that for?”

 

“You know, kiss it better?” she said, laughing. At his confused look, she shrugged. “Maybe it's a Muggle thing. When kids get hurt, you kiss where they got hurt to 'heal' it.”

 

“That wouldn't work on a real injury.”

 

“No,” she agreed, rolling her eyes a bit. “It's not meant to. Most of the time, kids just have a little bruise or a scrape. They just want to feel cared for. Besides, a little scrape can be a big deal to a kid who's never been scraped before. My mum used to tell me that kisses from mums were magic,” she added, her tone turning a little fond as she remembered. “That time I broke my arm, I was inconsolable after I got the cast on until she finally kissed it.”

 

He stared at her, and then his eyes drifted down to his hand, the toothpaste drying already towards the edges, turning into chalky patches on his skin. “Let's go out to get breakfast.”

 

She bit the insides of her lips to keep from laughing again, and nodded sagely. “Good call.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She cleaned up the kitchen, first, while Draco got dressed. Breakfast went nicely, followed by a walk. All-in-all, it was a pretty decent Saturday. She'd decided against going out, instead curling up on the couch to read while Draco fussed about his potions bench. It was strange to see him so intently focused, the lines of his face almost growing severe with the level of concentration he was applying to his future craft. There were more than a few times that she forgot about the book and just settled to watch him. He seemed oblivious to her scrutiny.

 

When he joined her on the couch, rather suddenly – she'd been engrossed in her book, that time – he'd traced her jaw with his fingers. She could smell the essence of crushed fluxweed and thyme lingering there as she leaned towards him, pressing her lips to his.

 

Later, when she was astride him in bed, she could still smell it as he buried his fingers into the flesh of her hips, crying out her name.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Hurry up,” Draco sighed, as Hermione tied her shoes. He was standing by the Floo, looking horrifically _bored_ as he waited for her.

  
She squinted at him. “It's been _ten minutes_ since you told me we were going. You can wait two more,” she huffed. He'd suddenly recalled mid-afternoon that he'd promised Ginny he'd stop by to head to his Aunt Andromeda's for tea and a playdate between the boys and Teddy. She was a little miffed at the late notice, but... well, it _had_ been a while since she'd seen Teddy.

 

He issued another gusty sigh as thirty _whole_ seconds passed.

 

Glaring, Hermione stood and straightened her shirt as she closed the distance between him. “Don't be a toddler,” she said, primly, grabbing the little Floo powder dish. “It's not my fault you forgot.”

 

“She's going to be mad at me, and it's all your fault.”

 

“Bullocks, it is!” she exclaimed, throwing the powder in and calling, “12 Grimmauld Place” into the flames. Turning back to him as she replaced the dish, she said, “And I'm going to tell her how you _forgot_ before you can lay the blame on my doorstep, you rotten little ferret.”

 

In lieu of answering, he shouldered her forward, into the Floo.

 

She came out to a _sea_ of people crowding Harry's living room – Andromeda, _Draco's parents_ (Narcissa was even clinging to Andromeda's hand, that was a good sign, wasn't it? She hadn't even thought to see how they'd gotten along at the wedding, if she were being honest with herself), Harry, Ginny, Ron, Susan, Neville, Hannah, _every Weasley_.... well, everyone. Everyone she could even loosely name as her friend was there.

 

Hermione stared at them in shock as they threw confetti at her and screamed ' _Happy Birthday!'_

 

She frowned, and opened her mouth, only to have Ron cut her off. “ _Don't_ say it. I told you she was going to say it,” he told Harry, pointing at him accusingly. “We _know_ it's tomorrow, but we can't go celebrating a birthday on a _Monday_.”

 

Hermione's mouth snapped shut. “That's not what I was going to say!” she said, defensively. “I was... going to say something else.”

 

“Here I thought you'd be a better liar as a Malfoy,” George quipped. He quickly weaved out of the way to avoid his mother's hand, aimed for the back of his head, and let out a _whoop_ as he dipped through the crowd and out of her reach.

 

“It's all my fault, I'm afraid,” Neville admitted, sheepishly. “I can't get away for very long on a weekday.”

 

Laughing, Hermione stepped forward to hug him. “Thank you for coming, Neville. It's so good to see you!” She closed her arms around his neck, and his tightened around her back, briefly. She was reminded that at one point, he'd rather fancied her a lot. She was glad that _that_ little phase was long over. That had made fourth and fifth year so bloody awkward.

 

She went through a procession of hugs, ending with Luna, who had returned _just_ for that one day. By the end, Hermione was getting a little choked up, although she did her best to hold it in.

 

When she got to Narcissa, the woman hugged her gladly.

 

Then, Lucius. They stared at each other for a long moment, and she awkwardly stuck out her hand. Heaving a sigh – and spurred on, no doubt, by his wife's narrow look – he stepped forward, shifting her hand aside with his, and gave her the most stiff and awkward hug she'd ever witnessed. It was barely a second before he was patting her on the back to signal the end of said hug, and then he was stepping back and straightening his waistcoat in a fussy manner that dearly reminded her of Draco.

 

Swallowing an instinctive laugh, she finally turned to her husband. “You're a sneak,” she muttered, although her words were rather undercut by her obviously pleased smile. “Did you enjoy riling me up for this?”

 

“I was _very much_ looking forward to how bad you would feel about snapping at me when you realized, yes,” he agreed, smugly.

 

“Ponce.”

 

“Swot,” he returned, huffing.

 

Smiling, she reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers, leaning in and up to press her lips to his cheek. “Thank you.”

 

“I didn't plan it,” he admitted. “I was just a pawn.”

 

“All the same.” Pulling away, she let her smile widen into a brief grin before she turned to find Harry in the crowd. “ _You_ owe me _such_ a good present after I got you that signed Snitch. Let's see it, Boy Who Lived,” she demanded, as those assembled burst into applause.

 

“I could have gotten a signed Snitch!” he defended. “I'm Harry Potter!”

 

“In Bulgaria, you're a nobody,” she reminded him, blowing a raspberry. “Where's my mind-blowing present? If you got me a _cookie bouquet_ like last year, I might just end this friendship altogether.”

 

He made a face. He'd forgotten her birthday, actually – not the date in general, he'd just been so wrapped up in his case at the time that when the day came, he found he'd totally spaced it. Ginny had reminded him the morning of, and in a blind panic he'd gone out into Muggle London and purchased the first fancy-looking thing he saw from the nearest fancy bakery.

 

Forgetting, of course, that Hermione didn't really indulge much in sweets.

 

“It looked _nice_ ,” he mumbled. “Besides, you know the rule. We have to do the party and the cake before the presents. You know how Ginny is about that stuff.”

 

Ginny shot him a threatening squint. “It's important that birthday parties have a _flow_ ,” she reminded him, tersely. “Okay, Hermione, I made _all_ of your favorites. Remember those little fig jam and goat cheese tartlets that I made for that one Christmas?” She grabbed Hermione's hand to pull her into the kitchen, weaving through the party. “And those olive tartlets you liked at the Manor? Come on, let me show you. I'm a _genius_!”

 

Swallowing a laugh, Hermione let herself be towed along, still feeling a little sheepish from the crowd.

 


	52. The Hardest Choice Of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're confused leading into this chapter -- please re-read Chapter 51! When I first posted it, I accidentally cut off 2/3 of the chapter and only posted the beginning. Sorry for any confusion!

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Two: The Hardest Choice Of All**

 

…

 

Hermione ate way too much at the stupid party, mostly because Ginny always got this look on her face when she made you something and you didn't eat all of it. The look of perdition. The look that would banish you straight to the icy reaches of the Acquaintance Zone. Hermione had braved that look only once, and by the grace of Harry had managed to trek back into the warmth of Ginny's good graces.

 

She would not make that mistake again.

 

“That really sounds like an excuse to stuff yourself,” Draco said, after Hermione explained all this.

 

“It's true!” she defended, taking another bite of her second slice of cake. “I barely made it back in! I might have ended up a friendless vagrant on the outskirts of society, sifting through trash for my next meal. Is that the future you would have wanted for me?”

 

He rolled his eyes, but held his hands up in surrender. “By all means, turn yourself into a walking pile of cake. It makes no difference to me.”

 

“Oh, so, you're not the slightest bit worried that I'll get fat?”

 

He shrugged. “I'll divorce you.”

 

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You have about four seconds to make it apparent that that's a joke,” she warned him, licking the fork clean.

 

Draco smiled. “I am sure that you will still look radiant at fifteen stone.”

 

“You won't,” she said, primly. “Stay trim. Once that jawline goes, so will I.”

 

He burst out laughing, mostly out of shock, and then stood, pulling her out of her chair. “Let's get these presents done, already, so I can take you home and utterly ignore you for that comment. Not to mention the years of passive-aggressive comments about your hips that will begin _starting today_. I hope you're ready.”

 

“I took your petty insults for seven years, I'm _sure_ I could handle a few more.” She stood, though, and let herself be ushered back into the living room.

 

Most of the presents were gift cards to restaurants, money, or nonsense. There were only four really memorable ones:

 

Harry and Ginny had taken that full-page spread of their wedding article in the _Prophet_ and gotten it framed – very nicely. Harry had added, when she just stared at it, “It'll go nicely in some fancy study or another. The Manor's _littered_ with those, from what I'm given to understand.”

 

George had gotten her a sex toy that, when she opened the box, made her eyes widen fantastically and slam the lid back on. Angelina promptly started braying with laughter as George sent her a salacious wink that brought a flush to her face.

 

Lucius' gift was the only one, Draco noticed, that stirred anything that resembled child-like delight on Hermione's face: A thick tome that had a cautionary note stuck to the front of it, written in Lucius' grand script, that it was not to be opened in any sort of light under _any_ circumstances. She'd immediately started squealing when she saw it, and had looked up at his father in breathless adoration. “This is from that second glass case, with the inlaid emeralds!” she'd told him, and when he'd nodded, she started squealing like a child again, making the man wince theatrically.

 

Draco observed, though, that his father seemed pleased that his gift had been so obviously well-received – despite his seemingly cold indifference to Hermione's rampant glee.

 

When it was all over, Hermione shot her husband a glance, noticing that none of the presents had been from _him_. Not that she _required_ one, or anything; it was just unlike Draco to not take the opportunity to give her something. She'd expected it. When their eyes met, though, he just mouthed: _Home_.

 

Blinking a bit at the mystery of it all, Hermione let herself be showered in more happy praises for being born, and endured another gauntlet of hugs. The Malfoys were the first to leave, and people started trickling out after them, one by one. Ron looked at Lucius' gift, which was _chained_ shut, and scowled a bit when his gaze drifted to his _own_ gift: Another book, and one Hermione was interested in reading, but also one that could be easily purchased in just about any shop.

 

“That's so unfair,” he muttered. “I say we exclude the Malfoys from all further gift-givings.”

 

“We _are_ exceptional at it,” Draco drawled, from where he was sprawled on the couch. His arm was across the back, playing with Hermione's hair as she organized all the gift cards she'd gotten. “Perhaps everyone _else_ should be excluded.”

 

“Don't be a poor sport,” Hermione suggested, laughing at Ron's indignant expression. “I'm truly _very_ touched that you even remembered I'd mentioned wanting to read that book. You always get this glazed-over look when I talk, so I always assume none of what I'm saying is actually penetrating. And I think I even said it _months_ ago, too. Unless Susan remembered for you.”

 

“How dare you,” Ron sputtered.

 

Susan laughed, smoothing her hand down her husband's arm soothingly. “He actually brought it up,” she admitted. “Last week, we were walking by Flourish and Bott's, and he said, 'Oh, I bet that book Hermione couldn't shut her gob about is in here somewhere.'”

 

Ron recoiled from Hermione's glare, and hissed to Susan from the corner of his mouth, “Do me a favor and _stop helping_.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Hermione glanced over at Harry and Ginny, who seemed to be having an intense but quiet conversation in the kitchen. After they'd put the boys to bed – both James and Teddy had given her pieces of artwork that she was sure not even a parent would be proud to put on their fridge – they'd mostly spent the late evening giving each other tense glances and little head-shakes.

 

Letting her eyes linger on them, she tilted her head towards them as she raised her eyebrows in silent question at Ron and Susan.

 

Ron followed her gaze and sobered a bit, but eventually was forced to shrug helplessly. He'd no idea. Susan mimicked his gesture, looking slightly worried. Forcing a slight smile, she leaned forward to call out to them: “Hey, are you two going to come join us?”

 

Harry stopped talking mid-sentence, sending them all a guilty look. Ginny just looked stony, if resigned.

 

“You two fighting?” Ron asked, a little incredulous. They didn't do it often, but when they _did_ , it was usually the kind of fight that didn't blow over very quickly. Ginny had Ron's famous temper, but unlike her brother, she could hold a _mean_ grudge.

 

“No,” Harry assured them, quickly, but Hermione noticed that Ginny didn't answer at all. “Sorry. Just talking about something. So, um, anyone up for a nip?”

 

After sharing a glance with Ron, Susan, and Draco, Hermione said, “Erm, no, thanks. We should probably get going and give you guys your house back.” Standing, she moved towards the kitchen. “Thank you both. So much. I don't know how you always manage to top yourself year after year, Gin.”

 

The redhead summoned a smile that was sincere, if a little wan, and quickly folded Hermione into a hug. “Happy birthday, Hermione,” she sighed. “Can I steal you for your lunch hour tomorrow?”

 

“Of course,” she murmured, a tense feeling coiling in her stomach at Harry's unhappy expression. She wondered if it was because he was afraid Ginny would tell her what was going on... or if it was because he had wanted to tell her, first, during their _usual_ lunch together. “I can Floo over here, if that's easier. I know you've got the boys, tomorrow.”

 

Ginny nodded, and released her.

 

Harry hugged her, next, murmuring, “Happy birthday, luv.”

 

“Thanks, Harry.” Taking a step back, she scrutinized her two friends for a second before turning to Draco, eyebrows raising. “Ready?” He nodded, and she was glad he'd opted to stay silent through _that_ tense little exchange, silently accompanying her through the Floo with his arms full of her presents.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“So that was _weird_ ,” Draco scoffed, dropping everything in his arms on her couch. “I didn't know the Golden Boy had fights with his wife.”

 

“We don't know that they're fighting,” Hermione returned, a little uncertainly. It had certainly looked like fighting. Harry had been doing a lot of that thing where he spoke through his grit teeth, and Ginny's eyes had started flashing in that way that _usually_ heralded an incoming jinx. Draco shot her an incredulous look, and she grimaced. “Although it did certainly look like it,” she sighed. “Oh, I _hate_ when they fight.”

 

“Uncomfortable for everyone, is it?”

 

“Well, for one thing, Harry just mopes around in obvious misery,” Hermione explained. “And Ginny does that thing where she's cheerful, but it's this sort of _aggressive_ cheer, like she's being cheerful _at_ you. I think it's her passive-aggressive way of trying to let him know that it doesn't bother her, or something.”

 

He shooed Crookshanks off the recliner, earning an aggravated growl as the ginger cat quickly disappeared into her bedroom. Sinking down into it, he folded his ankle across his knee. “So, what do you think they're fighting about?”

 

She shook her head. “Nothing I can think of,” she said, honestly. “I guess I'll have to wait and see.”

 

He leaned over the side of the recliner, pulling a wrapped box from behind the potions bench. Hermione grinned when she saw it. “What was so secret that it had to wait until here?” she wondered, reaching for the box. “It better not be as bad as George's.”

 

“It's not. I just didn't want to have to share your reaction with thirty other people.”

 

Chewing on her lower lip, she neatly undid the sides of the wrapping paper and carefully pulled it free of the box, trying not to rip any of it. She opened the box, finally, blinking down at the fabric she saw there. Slowly, she pulled it out, and as it fell into its natural shape, she could see that it was a shirt. A big one.

 

Draco's.

 

“What--” she started, staring at it. It was the undershirt of a Quidditch uniform, she realized. And it was pure Slytherin green. “This isn't--?”

 

“Yes,” he said. “And I am giving it into your care with many, _many_ reservations. But I promised you a new shirt to prance about the house in, didn't I? Since you refuse to wear any of that beautiful lingerie.”

 

She laughed, unfolding it. “I'm going to look much more ridiculous in this than Ron's old Cannons shirt.”

 

“You will never mention that shirt to me, again. This is the only shirt in your life,” he informed her, seriously, pointing at it. “Also, I charmed it. Put it on. Get undressed first, I mean, but then put it on.”

 

“I'm almost afraid to find out what you've charmed it with,” she retorted, but she peeled off her own shirt and pants and shimmied into his. She was started to discover that it was _soft_ , like the entire thing was made out of cashmere, or fleece. It looked coarse and scratchy, but it was quite honestly the most comfortable thing she'd ever worn. She ran her hand over the sleeve, mouth falling open a bit. “Wow,” she breathed.

 

Looking smug, Draco stood. “See, now _that_ is sexy.”

 

“I think you might be a little biased, there, Draco.”

 

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, leaning in to kiss her. His hands traveled down below the Quidditch undershirt, smoothing over her arse and up to the small of her back. She pressed up into the kiss, and he growled a bit, walking her backwards down the hallway and towards the bedroom. “Forget the lingerie. Wear this every night,” he beseeched her, as they tumbled into bed.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I'm pregnant,” Ginny said, and Hermione choked on her tea. Upstairs, James yelled as he thundered around the playroom. She could only just barely hear Albus' cooing laughter.

 

She coughed to try and clear her throat, setting her teacup down. “What?”

 

“I'm _pregnant_ ,” Ginny ground out, smoothing her hands over her face. “I can't believe this. I'd been so careful. He uses a condom every time. I'm even on those Muggle pills!”

 

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek. Ginny had taken every available precaution against the potential of pregnancy, and although Harry quite obviously wished otherwise, he'd known better than to try and argue against it. He could be a mule-headed man sometimes, but having spent an entire lifetime dealing with Hermione and Ginny had taught him _very well_ that there were certain instances where a man's opinion was simply not welcome. “Well, neither of those things are a hundred percent certain,” she said, slowly.

 

No, there was the slightest chance both could fail – in addition to the wizarding precautions Ginny had also taken.

 

But the odds were almost laughably small.

 

Ginny fiddled with her teacup. “You know Harry better than anyone,” she said, quietly. “And I trust you with my life. Do you think there's any chance he might have... you know. Messed with my stuff?”

 

“No!” Hermione gasped, utterly horrified. “Ginny, good _God_. You _know_ Harry would never get you pregnant against your will. How awful!”

 

Her eyes closed, and she sucked in a shuddering breath. “I know,” she said, her voice wavering a bit. “I know, I know, I just-- how could this have happened? I was so careful. I at _least_ wanted to finish out my season before I decided to hang it all up, for good, you know?” She sniffled, and her next breath was a sob. “I'm already nearly six weeks in. I've only got another month or so before they'll make me stop playing.”

 

Hermione scooted around the table, throwing her arms around her friend. She rocked her back and forth a bit as she cried, swallowing past a sudden lump in her throat.

 

She knew it wasn't just the pregnancy. Hell, Ginny had been through _two_ and she wanted another child; she always had. It was just the sudden-ness of it all. The lack of autonomy in _choice_. Even Ginny's attempts to gaining autonomy for herself had been for nothing, and she was looking at one of her potential futures going up in smoke.

 

“I thought about...” Ginny stopped, hiccuping a bit. “Muggles have a way of... getting rid of it, right?”

 

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. Suddenly, she had a very powerful idea of what Ginny and Harry had been fighting about. “Yes, an abortion.”

 

“They don't care about killing babies?” Ginny's voice was soft, almost bruised. Hermione wondered how much she hated herself, right then, for considering an option that she probably considered to be tantamount to murder.

 

“People who believe in the right to abortion don't believe that it's a baby, yet,” Hermione said, quietly. “Beliefs differ a lot on when, exactly, a fetus becomes a child, but... When it's early on, there's no brainwave activity. Nothing that would necessarily define it as a _person_.” She was trying to stay neutral, not wanting to push Ginny one way or another; this was one of the very distinct social issues in which the wizarding community was _not_ divided: All those born to wizarding society were raised without even being taught about the possibility of abortion. Consequently, their horror at discovering the practice was almost universal.

 

Ginny's fingers dug into her a bit. “Do you believe that?”

 

Hermione nodded a bit. “Yes, I do. I believe every woman has the right to make that choice for herself. And I don't believe that it's a child until the second trimester, or so.”

 

“Harry doesn't want me to.”

 

She chewed the inside of her cheek so hard that she tasted blood. Grimacing, she stopped. “It's your body,” she said, firmly. “You can take his wishes into account, and because he's your husband, I think it's a good idea to do so, but... it's ultimately your decision. And he's not going to hate you if you decide to do it, Gin. He loves you.”

 

She pulled away, her eyes red-rimmed. “What if I don't _know_ what the right choice is?” she asked, a tad desperately. “I don't want to decide to-- do that, and then in a year I can't stop thinking about how much I regret that decision. But I don't want to have the baby and in a year regret giving up my entire career over him, either. I can't talk to Mum, she'll absolutely lose her mind if I even _suggest_ it. I just don't know what to _do_ , and I have very little time in which to figure that out before it's decided for me.”

 

Feeling helpless, Hermione just stared at her, shaking her head a bit. “I can't tell you that,” she whispered, hoarsely. “I can't tell you what's right and what's wrong. It just comes down to you. But I'll be here, no matter what you decide, you know that, right?”

 

Ginny smeared the tears out from under her eyes, and her voice was barely audible. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

 

She leaned in, and Hermione gladly wrapped her arms around the redhead once more, pressing her cheek to the top of Ginny's head. Sometimes, she felt like such a failure – in those times when everyone came to her for answers and she came up with nothing. And this wasn't something that could be made into a pros or cons list, either. It was simply one of those things that came with the covenant of being born a woman in this strange, twisted little world.

 

She held Ginny until her lunch hour was up. Neither had eaten a single thing by the time she was heading through the Floo again, leaving Ginny in the kitchen by herself to make one of the hardest choices of her young life.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Harry appeared at her desk with a sandwich about half an hour after she returned. When she shot him a surprised look, he shrugged, and said, “I assume you didn't get around to eating.”

 

Huffing a soft laugh, Hermione nodded, reaching for the sandwich and unwrapping it. “Thanks.”

 

She ate half the sandwich in silence, her best friend perched on the edge of her desk. She took the moment to examine him as he fiddled with his wand, smoothing his fingertips over the well-worn wood. Hermione was suddenly struck by how _old_ he looked. The laugh lines she'd gotten used to only seeing when he was actually laughing were started to etch themselves into his face along with the faint creases in the corners of his eyes. The lines were barely there, but were being slowly worn into his expression like a leather glove.

 

None of them were going to be young forever. She'd always known it, in her head, but for the first time she knew it in her _heart_ , too – the realization of their own grisly mortality suddenly crawling up her spine and seizing her heart in a fist of dread.

 

“What are you going to do?” she finally asked, between bites.

 

Harry laughed, the sound a little sarcastic as he shrugged. “What can I do?” he pointed out, with a wry look that had just a tinge of bitterness beneath it. “It's out of my hands.”

 

“You can tell your wife that you _love_ her,” Hermione reminded him. “Maybe that'll take the edge off of her hatred for herself, don't you think?”

 

He flinched a bit, sobering. “She knows I love her. I'll always love her,” he said, fiercely.

 

“She knows,” she agreed. “But it's still nice to hear. You're her husband, Harry. You're supposed to be at her side through this, not arguing against her. She _needs_ you.”

 

“I don't know what to say to her,” Harry sighed. “I feel like every time I open my mouth, someone hijacks my body and starts going on these long bloody rants about how I want another kid. I _know_ what it sounds like, but I can't stop myself from just letting it all out every time the subject comes up. But if I'm silent, then I'm abandoning her. I don't know what to do.”

 

Hermione frowned at him. “Neither does she. But at least you two can figure that out, together. That's what you signed up for when you got married. You need to keep talking to her, Harry. And for God's sake, if you get home tonight and the first words out of your mouth aren't 'I love you,' I'm going to _kill_ you tomorrow.” He started to laugh, and so did she, but she insisted, “I'm serious. I'll Avada you right outside the Floo room. They'll haul me off to Azkaban screaming about how you didn't _have_ to be such a wanker.”

 

His chuckles died off slowly, and the smile drifted off his face. “You know I believe in a woman's right to choose, right?” he asked, softly.

 

“We've never discussed it,” Hermione said, with a shrug. “But I always sort of assumed.”

 

He nodded. “Thanks for the pep talk,” he said, in a dry tone. “And do _not_ Avada me tomorrow, because I'll say it, I promise.” He curled a hand around her neck, leaning in to drop a kiss against the side of her forehead. “Love you, 'Mione.”

 

“Love you, too, Harry. And don't pressure her,” she warned. “Or I'll skip the Avada and just kick you between the legs.”

 

“I'd prefer the Avada, actually,” Harry scoffed, straightening off her desk to head off.

 

“So _keep that threat in mind, then_ ,” she called after him, as he left her cubicle to head back towards the DMLE. He threw up a hand in acknowledgment without turning around.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she got home, Draco was conked out on the couch and the living room stank of whatever he was brewing in the corner. Wrinkling her nose, she waved her wand a few times to summon a light breeze to scoop the stench out the front door before heading into the hallway to hang her robe up.

 

The sound of the door opening woke him up, although the _winds_ hadn't. Sitting up, he peered at her. “Oh, you're home,” he said, yawning. “Your rent notice came today, so I paid it.”

 

She blinked. “You didn't have to do that.”

 

He just shrugged, already _forgetting_ about it as he stood to head into the kitchen. Money was as common as water to someone like Draco Malfoy; she didn't think it even registered with him that she might be uncomfortable with him just swooping in to throw money at her financial obligations like that. She turned towards the bedroom, her mind churning with it.

 

Because while she did know that on _one_ hand, half of his fortune was now hers, she also knew that she hadn't avoided living in the Manor just so she could feel like she was skating by in life _here_. It was also why she hadn't broached the topic of trying to find another flat for the both of them. He'd want something fancy and posh, and he had the money to buy whatever he wanted, and she'd struggle to keep up with her half of the rent payments – because she would, of course, insist on paying at least that much.

 

After changing, she found him in the kitchen inspecting a can of soup. “Do you really add water to this and it turns into food?” he asked.

 

She hesitated in the doorway, stalled between demanding to know what he was thinking _paying her rent_ without her permission and knowing that doing so would likely shatter the nice round of peace they were currently enjoying. She couldn't really decide which was worse: Fighting with Draco while _knowing_ he would not be leaving afterward, or guiltily watching the number on her Gringott's account skyrocket paycheck after paycheck thanks to him smoothly taking over all of her bills.

 

“Uh, yes. But don't eat that, we have to pop by my parents',” she said. “Birthday dinner.”

 

He blinked, but smiled at the surprise. He was much more interested in a home-cooked meal than he was in canned add-water soup, anyway. “Great, I'll get dressed. When are we expected?”

 

“Seven,” she said. She remained tense as he passed her to head into the bedroom, and she cursed herself. The moment to bring up the rent was past, now, and she wasn't sure how to go about bringing it up without making things awkward. Besides that, she didn't want to put him in a foul mood right before dinner with her _parents_ , either.

 

Not when things were going so well.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“So we're going to Aruba for two weeks in November to escape the chill,” David was explaining to Draco. “We thought you two might actually be interested in house-sitting for us. You must be getting cramped in Hermione's flat.”

 

“He's only been moved in for a weekend,” Hermione defended.

 

“Yes, dear, but your flat is very small,” Rose reminded her. Seeing her daughter bristle, she hastened to add: “And _perfect_ for one person and a cat. But with the two of you in there, you're liable to start bouncing against each other before long.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes a bit, and David said, “Trust us, when November rolls around, you'll be begging to house-sit.”

 

“It'd be no problem,” Draco agreed, amicably.

 

“Wonderful!” Rose said, happily. “We'll get the guest bedroom set up for you two. Hermione's little bed won't fit you both, I don't think. It's _very_ easy. We like to get Hermione to house-sit for us when we go away so that burglars don't notice we've gone and try and rob us blind.”

 

Draco shot Hermione a confused frown, and she just shook her head a bit. She'd explain it later. “Sure, Mum,” she agreed. “Need me to do anything with the garden?”

 

Rose made an unhappy noise, pursing her lips at her mashed potatoes. “I think I'll just tear the whole thing out and put a Chinese rock garden in,” she sighed. Hermione's eyes flicked to her father, who was staring intently at his meatloaf so as not to betray his glee. “I just can't get that soil to produce _anything_. After years of trying, I'm finally going to hang it up.”

 

“Make sure you drive the car around a bit,” David added. “I don't want the battery to freeze up.”

 

Draco brightened _dangerously_ and Hermione said, flatly, “ _No_ , Draco. That's fine, Dad. Anything else?”

 

“We'll leave you a list when we go,” he promised. “And save room, your mother made a black forest cake. Your favorite,” he added, unnecessarily. He turned to Draco, and whispered, “And it has been ever since she was _six_. Once she finds something she likes, she sticks to it.”

 

“So I've learned,” Draco said, shooting Hermione a quick grin.

 

She ignored the way that grin increased her heart-rate a little, sending him an exaggerated eyeroll as she scooped some more mashed potatoes into her mouth.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Cohabitation was something that required a lot of practice, all things considered. When one got used to living alone and doing whatever they wanted, suddenly having to think about this entirely new person seemed almost like more trouble than it was worth. However, as the days wore on, she found that she didn't mind Draco's presence overmuch, especially since he seemed to be in an almost remarkably chipper mood.

 

It wasn't until two weeks later, entering October, that the cracks started to show.

 

She was sipping tea in the kitchen one morning when she heard a cry of disgust from the bathroom. Draco came marching out, still dripping wet with a towel pinned around his hips with one hand. The other hand held up a small tangle of long, dark hair. “How many times have I asked you to _clean out the bloody drain_?” he demanded.

 

“I _do_ clean it out!” Hermione snapped. “And it's just a little hair.”

 

“Just a _little hair_? This is in the drain _every morning_ , without fail,” he hissed, stomping over to the kitchen sink. He tried (and failed) to open the cabinet with his toes several times before it finally nudged open enough for him to hook his foot around it. He tossed the hair into the garbage can and kicked it closed. “It's a wonder you're not _bald_ yet, with the amount of hair you're losing. And I keep finding them all over the shower walls!”

 

“You lose hair, too! You just don't notice because it's so short and blond,” she exclaimed, shooting him a baleful glare from the table. “It's perfectly normal for a person to shed up to a hundred hairs a day.”

 

“That's absolutely insane, not to mention _revolting._ ” Draco stomped past her, leaving a wet trail behind him on the kitchen floor. Hermione stared at it, setting her jaw in irritation. “Every time I take a shower, I have to drag a _fistful_ of your matted, disgusting hair out of the drain. Can we _please_ get an elf?”

 

“No,” she said, flatly. “And a _fistful_? You know, if you have to rely on hyperbole to make your point, maybe it's not a very good point,” she said, with a blistering tartness.

 

His response was to slam the bathroom door so he could, presumably, dry himself.

 

When he came out, moments later, she was already pulling his porridge out of the microwave. It was one of the routines they'd stumbled into over the weeks; he took that for breakfast nearly every day, and she always made it while he was in the shower. He had on pants, but no shirt, and he grunted in begrudging thanks when he took the bowl from her.

 

He set it on the counter and opened up the cabinet. After moving some items around, he sighed through his nose and planted his palms on the counter. “There's no brown sugar,” he said, enunciating the words carefully, as though he were keeping himself from exploding.

 

“Can't you use maple syrup? It will taste the same,” she suggested, absently, poring over the _Daily Prophet_.

 

He closed the cabinet door, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “You said you were going to grab some on your way in from work _yesterday_ ,” he reminded her.

 

She raised her head to glare at him. “Or _you_ could grab it at _any_ point in the day, since you sit at home doing _nothing_ for most of it!” she said, brusquely. “Or do you really expect me to believe that you spend all eight hours laboring over those silly ancient potions of yours?”

 

“Yes, I expect you to believe that,” he growled. “Because that's what I'm doing. I'm trying to finish my essay draft, something I thought _you_ , of all people, would appreciate. Or do you really expect me to sit here and listen to you _judge_ me and what I decide to fill my day with? I don't _need_ to work, if you may recall. I have money. I use it to pay _rent_ for this place, don't I?”

 

Hermione shot to her feet. “I never asked you to do that!” she screeched. “And I never wanted you to!”

 

“Yes, well, it happened _anyway_ , now, didn't it?” he asked, sweetly, and upended the porridge over the sink. It slid slowly out of the bowl and fell into the drain with a wet _splat_. “So if you're trying to suggest I'm not _pulling my weight_ , or something, how about you don't?”

 

“Is that what that was about? So you could feel like you were _pulling your weight_? Or so you could feel like you had some sort of control over this situation?” she demanded. “Were you feeling a little out of sorts, being forced to move into my home rather than convincing me to move into yours?”

 

He groaned in pure frustration. “Will you _please_ just pick up some brown sugar on your way home?” he muttered, stalking out of the kitchen. “It's impossible trying to hold a conversation with you, like this.”

 

Hermione reached up and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking on it. The stinging in her scalp did very little to soothe her ire. However, maybe if she actually yanked _out_ a good chunk of it and threw it all over his stupid potions bench, she'd feel better. She allowed herself that brief fantasy as he stomped back out into the living room and took up at his bench again.

 

Without another word, she got up, got dressed for work, and Flooed out. She didn't say goodbye to him, and he just stared into his cauldron as she left, stubbornly refusing to say goodbye to her, too.

 


	53. The L-Word

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Three: The L-Word**

 

…

 

About ten in the morning, Ginny landed on her desk with a dull _thump_. Startled, Hermione got a blotch of ink all over her notes, and scowled at it. “Ginny, you scared me,” she chided, although rather gently. They'd never spoken of the _issue_ since that first time, with Harry and Ginny being largely committed to ignoring it during social gatherings. She actually wasn't sure that Ron or Susan even _knew_ , yet.

 

She imagined that Ginny thought Susan would tell Ron, if she'd been let in on it. And Ron – well, it was safe to say that Ron shared his mother's viewpoint on abortion. Hermione remembered arguing with him about it years prior. He'd been convinced that fetuses were babies from the moment of conception, and it was hard to convince someone who believed that in the _good_ side of abortion. To him, it was simply murder, and he'd been utterly horrified to learn of the procedure's existence. _How can you deny a person's right to exist_? he'd demanded.

 

Well, when that person wasn't a person, yet, she supposed. When that non-person's existence threatened the health of the mother-person. When the non-person was almost guaranteed to have a piss-poor life because the mother-person simply wasn't prepared. There were so _many_ reasons. Plenty of them good.

 

But to use any of them, Ron would have had to acknowledge the possibility that a fetus wasn't a person. When she realized that he never would, she'd just dropped it, tersely suggesting that they agree to disagree.

 

So, no. Ginny probably wouldn't ever tell Ron.

 

“Sorry,” the redhead muttered, listlessly. “I was going to come by for lunch, but I couldn't wait. You think your boss would let you take a quick walk with me?”

 

Hermione nodded, getting up to nip into her boss' office, asking if she could take her lunch break early and eat at her desk. He'd simply waved her off – she always turned her assignments in on time, and she was literally the _last_ person he felt the need to babysit. A few minutes later, she was grabbing her robes to follow Ginny outside.

 

The air was starting to get noticeably cool, these days. She saw a hint of yellow on the trees and swallowed a sigh. She missed summer, already.

 

“I decided to keep it,” Ginny said, her hands stuffed in her pockets.

 

Hermione just nodded. She hadn't really thought that Ginny would want to go through with an abortion. The things she'd been taught all her life ran far too deep for her to be able to make that decision in a matter of mere weeks. “Did you tell Harry, yet?”

 

She shook her head. “Not yet. I'll tell him tonight. I had to have a talk with my coach, first.”

 

“What'd she say, then?”

 

“Offered me my spot back on the team after it all, of course. I don't think I'll take her up on it,” she responded, in a low murmur. “I want to actually be around for this one, you know? With James and Albus, I had to hire a nursemaid. I didn't even think those things still existed. And then you hit that mid-season extended tour, and the milk all dried up, so... I don't know. It's like I didn't get to bond with either of them.”

 

Hermione fell silent, not sure what to say. She knew nothing about the trials of motherhood, but the soft ache in Ginny's voice sounded like nothing else she'd ever heard out of the woman. After a moment, she said, “You're a fantastic mother, you know.”

 

Ginny snorted. “Don't you butter me up because I'm all sad,” she ordered.

 

“No, seriously!” Hermione chuckled, slinging an arm around Ginny's shoulders. “Those boys of yours are so well-loved, it's no wonder you managed to turn that drafty old house into a proper home. You must be made of miracles.”

 

Laughing, Ginny leaned into her. “I hope it's a girl, this time,” she admitted. “If I have to be stuck in a boy's club for a family again, I will go starkers.”

 

“You'd think, after all this time, the wizarding world would have come up with a gender modification charm to perform _in utero_ , or something. You can turn boogers into bats, for God's sake, but anything that could have a decent real-world application is, what, too boring for wizards to contemplate?” Hermione demanded.

 

“I'd much rather turn boogers into bats than play gendermorphs with my unborn child. I mean, you can't even see if it worked, in there. What if it came out all--” Ginny made a face, curling her hands a bit as she attempted to portray deformity.

 

Hermione looked around. “That'd be no good. We don't even have any bell towers around here to hide them in.”

 

Ginny looked blank, and Hermione sighed internally. She needed to save the Muggle jokes for Harry, really. Or Susan. Or get Ginny to _read_. Shaking her head a bit, the redhead said, “Either way, I wouldn't want to tamper with the results. I feel like we should get what we get and be happy with it, you know? Besides, what if I change the external genitalia, but then my poor baby goes through life wishing she were a boy? Or thinking she ought to be? I couldn't live with the guilt.”

 

“But what if the opposite?” Hermione argued. “What if it's a baby born a _boy_ who spends their life wishing to be a girl? You'd be saving them from years of misery.”

 

Ginny groaned. “Ugh. You are making my head spin. What they really ought to do is make a spell for an actual person to switch genders, if they feel like it. That way, everyone could know for sure,” she suggested. “Also, if you change your mind, you could always go back.”

 

Hermione fell silent as she imagined it. A world with people swapping genders just when they felt like it – hell, the ones that felt fluid could just go back and forth at their will, depending on how they _felt_ that day. She wondered if that would be one of the weird exceptions to wizarding society's generally conservative viewpoint – like how skin color never seemed to matter. “You think they'd make one for people who don't want to be either, too?”

 

Ginny shrugged. “Why not? Just give them _something_ to do their toilet business out of and leave the rest of it alone.”

 

Now that the mood felt less tense, Hermione stopped and pulled Ginny in for a hug. “You're really happy with this decision?” she asked, gently. “I don't want to hear later that you felt pressured to go one way or another, do you hear?”

 

Pulling back, Ginny sighed, smiling. “I made this one on my own, I promise. I think I may go for that _Prophet_ job, after all.”

 

Hermione smiled. “You always _did_ love writing. I can't believe you ever stopped.”

 

Ginny shrugged a bit. “I guess it was hard to find the time.”

 

“Well, you'll have some during your pregnancy. You can probably start up as an occasional correspondent. And you'll still get to watch the games, too,” Hermione added.

 

The redhead flashed her a grin. “Free tickets,” she crowed, pumping her fists.

 

She declined to remind her that Harry could buy all the tickets she could ever want. When it came to the Weasleys, having a lot of money was great, but feeling like one had scored a sweet deal was even better. Also, being given free stuff was a status symbol, and if Ron was any indication, status symbols were everything.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She stood just outside of line at the check-out for a long time, contemplating the brown sugar in her hand. She _shouldn't_ buy it. She shouldn't reward his temper tantrums. She should make him go out into the _world_ and get his own stupid sugar.

 

She should probably stop being such a petty jerk.

 

After all, she had promised to get it the day before. Sighing as she realized she was going to buy it, she stepped into line, glowering at everyone around her as she paid for the damn box of sugar and all but _stomped_ outside. She was in a right foul mood the entire walk home, too. Every step, she'd practice some blistering retort to some imaginary insult of his, compiling her half of what she assumed would be an argument of epic proportions.

 

She briefly considered apologizing. _Briefly_.

 

As it was, when Hermione stepped through the front door of her apartment, she found Draco at the kitchen table. He was silent, although he glanced up at her as she entered.

 

Hermione brandished the box of sugar with a mocking smile as she headed towards the cupboard to put it away. He didn't say a word as she opened it, falling still when she saw an identical box of sugar sitting right on the first shelf.

 

Setting her box on the counter, she put a hand on her hip and stared up at it, sighing deeply. “Sorry,” she said, shortly.

 

There was a beat of silence. “Me, too,” he said, just as shortly.

 

“Dinner?”

 

“Sushi.”

 

She gave him a curt nod, and he stood to grab his coat.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He dipped his sushi in his soy sauce mixture, his pale eyelashes guarding his eyes from her. He'd gotten a lot better at using chopsticks. “I keep messing this one up,” he finally said, ending the reign of silence. “The potion. It's supposed to come out purple and smelling of lilac. I've remade it nine times.” He said the words flatly, almost like he was _past_ the feeling of disappointment.

 

She looked up at him, a little surprised to hear him talking about his work at all. He was so guarded about it, and she'd never figured out why. “Did you want me to look at it?”

 

“No,” Draco said, sharply.

 

Hermione stared at him, some of the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Was he worried that she'd _outshine_ him? That she'd figure out what he'd been toiling over before he had a chance to do so? For the first time in their relationship, Hermione found herself feeling _awkward_ about her intelligence. With Ron, it had never been a handicap. Their interests had been too different in nature for him to have ever really felt _threatened_ by her braininess. She'd never turned her mind towards chess or Quidditch, after all.

 

After a few seconds of contemplative silence, she changed the subject. “Ginny's pregnant,” she said, feeling safe enough announcing it now that Ginny had made her decision.

 

Draco blinked at the piece of fish dangling between his chopsticks. His expression softened for just a moment. “That's great,” he murmured, a hint of wistfulness touching his tone. “Good for her. I know they wanted a girl, next time around.”

 

“Yeah,” Hermione said, ignoring his tone entirely. She could _not_ think about being pregnant, right now. “They want to use the name Lily, if they get one.”

 

“What name would you want?” he asked, suddenly.

 

She stared at him, stunned by the question. “I... don't know,” she finally admitted, frowning a bit. “I've never really given it much thought. I suppose I could follow all my friends' leads and try and name them after my parents. Rose and David?”

 

“On my mother's side, constellation or star names are traditional,” he said. “On my father's--”

 

“Roman Emperors seems to be the theme for the Malfoys,” she said, in a dry tone.

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I was going to say, the middle name of the firstborn son is typically that of his father's. So if we were following that theme, it'd be--”

 

“Taurus Draco Malfoy?” she suggested, innocently. “Ursa Minor Draco M--”

 

“Stop,” he ordered, groaning and rolling his eyes. “There _are_ astronomy-themed names that _don't_ sound stupid. For instance, mine. My name is wonderful. It's elegant and strikes fear into the hearts of everyone.” Ignoring her incredulous snort, he barreled on: “And my mother and aunts obviously have beautiful names. You can't say they don't.”

 

She popped a tuna roll in her mouth, chewing and swallowing as she considered him. “Alright. What name would _you_ want to give your son or daughter?”

 

“I like Scorpius,” he began, and scowled when she burst into laughter. “What.”

 

Hermione stopped, staring at him. “Oh, dear Lord, you're serious,” she whispered, horrified. She slowly began to chuckle again. “What an utterly _ridiculous_ name-- you _can't_ honestly mean to name your son Scorpius. Are you _trying_ to get him beat up in school?”

 

“ _Your name is Hermione_ , and you're going to say that _Scorpius_ is a stupid name?” he demanded.

 

“What's wrong with Hermione?” she retorted, indignant.

 

“That's the name of a little girl who gets her pigtails pulled and her glasses stomped on,” Draco growled, leaning forward to point at her. “As you damn well know. Scorpius is a perfectly fine name. And if it was a girl, I'd want to name her Cassiopeia. I suppose you have a problem with _that_ , too.”

 

She blew a bit of a raspberry, but tilted her head as she considered it. “That's actually not too terrible. I could call her Cassie. That's usually short for Cassandra, and I've always thought that a pretty name.”

 

“I _like_ Scorpius,” Draco said, mutinously.

 

“What am I going to call him for short?” she complained. “ _Scorpy_?”

 

“Don't call him a nickname. He's a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. Nicknames are for moneyless idiots who can't learn how to spell their proper given name.”

 

She inspected her nails. “Whatever you say, _Drake_.”

 

He stiffened, shooting her a murderous look. “Don't,” he warned, his voice flat. When she smiled, his glare intensified. “I'm serious. Not ever again. Don't you _ever_ call me that. Hermione, look at me. Never again.”

 

“But _Drakey_ ,” she cooed, pouting a bit – her best imitation of Pansy. He recoiled from her, and she leaned in towards him. “What's wrong, Drakey-poo?”

 

“Hermione!” he barked, in a commanding tone.

 

She batted her eyelashes at him. “I love when my little _Drakey-wakey_ is so _authoritative,_ ” she simpered, curling her hands together and pressing her cheek to them as she let loose a lovelorn sigh.

 

He picked up a piece of sushi and jabbed it at her mouth. “Just put this in your face. Put this in your face, and shut up.”

 

She squawked in surprise when he jabbed it against her lips and he used the opportunity to force it between her teeth. She protested wordlessly as he extracted the chopsticks, and began to chew, a stupid smile spreading across her face as she watched his scowl slowly fade away. He hid his own smile behind his palm, leaning his face into it as he planted his elbow on the table.

 

“You're so annoying,” he complained, when he got his smile under control.

 

“You love it,” she accused, lightly.

 

The look he gave her was searing, and she realized a bit too late just what she'd said. She felt her cheeks heat, and watched him as he shrugged, his eyes going half-lidded. “I suppose I've gotten rather used to it,” he agreed, and the look in his eyes made her drop her gaze to the table. She didn't need any prompting to put another piece of sushi in her mouth and shut up.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When they got back home, he went back to work on his potion. She wanted to offer a helping hand, again, but after his stern reaction at dinner, she didn't dare. Instead, she took the book Lucius had given her for her birthday and disappeared into the closet with it.

 

The book couldn't be opened in any sort of light, but when it was opened in absolute darkness, the runes glowed off the page. She'd spent the last few weeks painstakingly trying to transcribe it in her free time. It was slow going; the process was so time consuming that she'd only made it about twenty pages in. It was as follows:

 

1: Go into closet and open book.

2: Desperately try to memorize a couple of the runes.

3: Close the book and leave the closet, where a parchment is waiting.

4: Write down the runes before memory fails.

5: Return to closet and open book.

 

Once the entire book was copied, she was going to work on the actual translating. The runes were prehistoric, pre-dating even known Ancient Runes, but with the book Lucius had lent her previously, she thought she stood a chance of at least a partial translation.

 

Which she found pretty exciting.

 

She was staring at a few runes, memorizing the strokes of them, when a knock sounded on the closet door. “Hermione, are you almost done? It's nearly eleven,” Draco said through the door.

 

“Yes, I'll be out in a moment,” she promised. She stared at the runes for a second longer and shut the book, setting it on the ground as she stepped out, weaving around Draco to go for the parchment on her dresser to scratch down her copies. As she finished, she felt his arms circle around her. The smell of singed thyme clung to him. “You smell like potions.”

 

“You smell like a swotty pear,” he returned, burying his face in her hair.

 

She chuckled when his hand crept up her shirt. “Did Ginny tell you about make-up sex?” she demanded, suspiciously. His hand paused for just a second. “I _knew_ it.”

 

He turned her around, leaning into her to bend her back over the dresser a bit. His hands planted on either side of her, he leaned in to brush his lips against hers. “Maybe she did,” he admitted. “But you can't deny that it sounds like an awfully decent perk for the misery of fighting.”

 

“You were miserable?” she asked, somewhat disbelieving.

 

Draco's eyes found hers. “More than you'd ever believe,” he said, seriously, and he deepened the kiss before she could respond. His hands slid across the slick wood of the dresser until they formed against the small of her back, pulling her with him as he stepped back and swiveled towards the bed. He slid his hands under her shirt again, but this time it was to lift her blouse over her head.

 

Her fingers worked at his shirt buttons as he fell forward into her, pinning her to the bed. She gasped when his mouth found her throat, sucking a mark there. Suddenly, the simple act of disrobing seemed complicated and unnecessary.

 

She wanted him _now_.

 

Moaning softly, she abandoned his shirt and undid the front of his pants. Echoing her fervor, he shoved her skirt up until it was bunched around her waist, his slender fingers smoothing possessively over her thighs as he hiked her knees up around him. She got him free of his pants, and he pulled her knickers to the side as he slid into her with a groan.

 

He picked up a fast, frantic pace that left her head reeling as he shoved her bra up over her collarbone, leaning down to close his mouth over her nipple and nip at the sensitive skin there. He couldn't wait, so he pulled her hand into place over herself in a silent plea.

 

She didn't need much urging, her finger circling her clit rapidly as he pounded into her, both of their voices rising in crescendo with each other.

 

He managed to hold off just until he felt her shudder, and then buried himself in her with a yell that was muffled against the soft flesh of her chest. Hermione let out a whimpering cry as she came, feeling herself pulse around him. Then, he sank against her, a dead weight, and she could only just barely pull her hand out from between them.

 

When he caught his breath, Draco said, “Let's fight more often.”

 

She laughed, the sound weak with his weight on top of her. “No!” She curled her legs around his.

 

“Well, let's shag like we _did_ fight, then,” he compromised, lifting up his head to look at her. He ran his lips along her chin and nibbled at the pulse in her throat.

 

She exhaled, sleepy and content. “Alright, deal.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I think I'm going to tell him that I love him,” Hermione said, and Susan _dropped her spatula_ in shock, turning to stare at her.

 

Ginny's mouth fell open in raw delight. “But it's only been _seven months_ ,” she pointed out, eyes narrowing a bit. “What happened to the _timeline?_ You know the rules, Hermione, it has to be at least eighteen months before you drop the big 'L Word.'”

 

“Don't tease her!” Susan gasped, eyes widening at Ginny. “She won't do it!” She quickly moved over the table, her belly already gently swelling. It was barely noticeable, but Ron was already treating her like she was made out of spun sugar.

 

This was their first time really 'hanging out' at Ron and Susan's flat, and although the place was a little _sporty_ for Hermione's liking, it was a fairly decent flat. The kitchen was homey with an eat-in breakfast nook, there was already a second bedroom for the new baby (Ron had painted it light blue with yellow ducks. After the first aborted attempts at trying to make ducks, he'd finally caved and used a stencil). The flat seemed to echo the Burrow in the theme of 'there is no theme, and we picked up all this furniture from random houses strewn throughout the world.'

 

“So why the change of heart?” Ginny teased, picking up a biscuit.

 

Flushing a bit, Hermione shrugged. “One of us has to say it, first,” she said, in a reasonable tone. “I know we're both... already at that point. It's just that neither of us will say it. And I suppose someone ought to.”

 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I can always rely on you to strip the romance out of everything. Want to destroy a few of my favorite fairy tales, while you're at it?”

 

“Belle in _Beauty and the Beast_ has a classical taste of Stockholm's syndrome,” Hermione shot back, bristling a bit. “Sleeping Beauty was date-raped. Snow White was _eleven_. Rapunz--”

 

“Stop!” Ginny groaned, covering her ears with her hands.

 

Susan grabbed Hermione's hands to draw her attention back to her. She was smiling ecstatically. “How are you going to do it?” she asked, bouncing in her chair. “Are you going to wait for the right moment, or just come home and say it? Oh, I wish I could see his _face_ when you do it,” she said, wistfully. “I bet he'll go all slack-jawed and then get that little smile on his face when he's caught off-guard by you doing something cute.”

 

“He doesn't-- what are you talking about?” Hermione scoffed.

 

“He does it when you're not looking,” Ginny said, waving her question away impatiently. “So, what _is_ the plan?”

 

“There isn't one,” Hermione said. “I'll just... I don't know. I'll just say it when I go home tonight. If I try and wait for a right 'moment,' I'll probably just end up putting it off forever. Might as well get it squared away right now, don't you think?”

 

Ginny threw a biscuit at her face. “Stop making it sound like an item on a bloody to-do list!”

 

“Hey!” Hermione brushed the crumbs from her shirt with a scowl. “Look, I don't want it to be some momentous _thing_. I just feel like we're purposefully _avoiding_ saying it at this point, so I might as well get it over with so those moments don't get all awkward.”

 

Susan squealed, putting her shaking fists by her face as she struggled to contain her excitement. “When it's over, pull the memory out into a Pensieve for us!”

 

“Then you can hurry up and get knocked up like us,” Ginny added, bouncing her eyebrows.

 

“ _No_ thank you. I can't afford to take any more time off work. That honeymoon already put me behind for the year,” Hermione said, pursing her lips. “I've been playing catch-up ever since.”

 

Ginny pointed at her and looked at Susan. “Do you _see_ what I've _dealt_ with all these years?”

 

Hermione pointed at _Ginny_. “Do you see what _I've_ dealt with all these years?” she countered. Ginny slapped her pointing finger down, and Hermione slapped Ginny's down as she re-erected it. This little slap-fight continued for about ten seconds before Susan finally managed to pin at least one of their hands to the table.

 

“Let's all agree that you're both _awful_ company,” she suggested, brightly. “I'm clearly the best of the lot.”

 

“I ain't taking that from no Hufflepuff,” Ginny said, her eyes narrowing a bit as she affected an American-ish, cowboy-esque drawl. She made a finger gun and pointed it at Susan, who pulled out her own finger gun just as quickly. They faced off for a moment, until Hermione pulled out _two_ finger guns and pointed it at both of them.

 

“Why don't we all take a breather, cowboys,” Hermione drawled in her own Wild West accent. Ginny and Susan both drew their second finger guns and trained them on her.

 

Susan's eyes darted between them. “This town's only big enough for one of us.”

 

“You can't just _claim a whole town_. There's at least twelve buildings in a town,” Ginny huffed. “Learn to _share_.”

 

“That's a good point,” Hermione admitted. “Truce?”

 

All three of them slowly started to lower their hands, until suddenly Susan's popped back up. “Bang! Bang!” she said, cocking them at Ginny and Hermione's heads, respectively. “Ha ha _ha_! The town and its General Store are _all mine_!”

 

“You _bitch_!” Ginny gasped, and Hermione burst into laughter.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione Flooed to the Leaky and decided to walk home, needing the time to work up the courage to be the first one to Say It in a new relationship. Even _if_ that relationship had already been taken to marriage and she knew with near certainty that he loved her, it was still scary to say it first.

 

She repeated the words to herself as she walked up the stairs to her flat. _Draco, I love you. I love you, Draco. Draco, I have something to say, and it's that I love you_.

 

“I suck at rehearsal,” she sighed as she stood outside her door.

 

She opened her door to utter chaos.

 

Draco was cursing as he fussed about his potions bench, flitting between it and the Floo, which had the tell-tale flames of a Floo-call but no person actually inside the flames. “Merlin's _tits_ ,” Draco snarled, darting back to the Floo and inserting his hand into the flames, waving it around. Nothing appeared. He looked up at Hermione, standing flabbergasted in the doorway, and snapped, “Help me! I just found out that the deadline for my entrance essay was _yesterday_ , and I was in a Floo call with the head of the Centre to explain myself and your _stupid Floo is cutting out_!”

 

She closed the door, already feeling the courage she'd gathered on the walk over withering away as he ranted and raved at her Floo. If she didn't do this, now, she wasn't sure _when_ she'd find the courage to do it, again. “Draco...”

 

“I didn't even finish the bloody thing, I was waiting on that third potion to finally realize,” he exclaimed, trying to extinguish the Floo's fire to start up again. “I need an extension. They'll give me an extension, won't they? Hell, I'll _pay_ them for an extension. They can't deny _me_ an extension. I'm Draco _sodding_ Malfoy! I'll call my _father_ \--”

 

“Draco,” she tried to interrupt, feeling like she was ready to throw up at any second. She had to spit the confession out before she really _did_ puke everywhere.

 

“He'll set them straight,” he ranted. “Nobody goes toe to toe with my father and lives to--”

 

“ _Draco_!”

 

“ _What_?” he exploded, turning to glare at her incredulously. His eyes were wide with panic. “Why are you standing there and _not helping_?”

 

“Draco, I'm in love with you,” she said, in a rush.

 

“I _know_ that!” he snapped, turning away from her impatiently to try and stoke the Floo back to life again. Hermione stared at him, her mouth falling open in _shock_ at his response. Oblivious, he muttered angrily to himself, and slapped his palm against the side of the Floo when the fire failed to return. “I need _matches_. No. My wand. Where the bloody hell is my wand?”

 

She continued to gape at him. “Draco!” she huffed, putting her hands on her hips.

 

“You're still just _standing there_?” he demanded, gesturing at her as he tried to find his wand. He was checking the couch cushions.

 

Hermione saw it on the floor underneath the recliner and picked it up. His eyes lit up and he reached for it, and she crossed her arms, glaring at him.

 

“What?” he asked, irritated. “Give that to me!”

 

“Did you just respond to me saying _I'm in love with you_ with 'I know'?” she shrieked. “I should _snap_ this stupid thing!”

 

“What _should_ I have said?” he asked, staring up at her in utter, incredulous betrayal.

 

She scoffed, disbelieving. “ _Usually_ people say something like 'I love you, too.'” Her voice had grown _very_ shrill in the past few seconds. Crookshanks flinched at the volume of it and slunk off the recliner and down the hallway to her bedroom, growling deep in his throat.

 

“Of _course I love you_ , you stupid swot!” he yelled. “I should think that's _fairly obvious_. Give me my _wand_!”

 

“How is that _obvious_?” she screeched.

 

“I do not have time to play that little game you women like to play where you pretend like you're too stupid to notice everything around you,” he groaned, exasperated. He stood and closed the distance between them, reaching for his wand, and growled in low warning when she held it behind her back, still glaring up at him. “You know damn well I'm in love with you and that I've _been_ for months, so give me my thrice-damned wand before I _throttle_ you. I don't have _time_ for this, I'm already late!”

 

“I'm invoking my childish thing!” she screamed back into his face.

 

He stared at her, his eyebrows drawn together in utter confusion. “ _What,”_ he said, flatly.

 

“You said I could have _one childish thing_ that you had to indulge, no matter what, no matter the circumstances,” she said, a little embarrassed of how much her voice was trembling. “And I'm invoking it now, and it's that when I say something emotionally revealing, you have to _stop everything_ and pay it all of your attention.”

 

Draco blinked down at her, stunned, and she saw some of the panic leave his expression, slowly being replaced by wonder as he regarded her. His face softened, and he exhaled in a rush. When he spoke, all the anger had left his voice, leaving it soft and a little raw. "I didn't think you'd say it, first," he admitted. "Ginny told me I apparently wasn't allowed to until a year and a half."

 

She swallowed. “Well, that was... a stupid rule I made up, I guess,” she muttered.

 

He smiled, reaching his hands up to circle around her neck and the back of her head. “I love you,” he said, seriously, before he pressed his lips softly to hers.

 

She felt her heart flutter even as relief poured over her, and she pressed up into the kiss needily.

 

When it ended, he murmured, against her lips: “And I will love you _so much more_ if you help me get my essay finished in time to send it in tonight.”

 

She burst into giggles, pressing his wand into his hand. “You know how much I love essays.”

 


	54. The Han Solo Move

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Four: The Han Solo Move**

 

…

 

“He _totally_ Han Solo'd you,” Ron said, in amazement. His gaze had gone unfocused as he imagined it. “That's amazing. I've _always_ wanted to 'I know' a girl,” he admitted, to Susan.

 

Hermione glared at him. “Don't _idolize_ that idiocy,” she said, scornfully, picking through a baby catalog. She'd come over to help them figure out the furnishings for the nursery, although really she'd just needed to get out of the flat. After finishing the essay and sending it in (he'd successfully wheedled with the dean for an extension of forty-eight hours), Draco had declared her a 'distraction' from his work and had banned her for the rest of the day.

 

Susan smiled widely. “Want to practice it with me?” she offered her husband.

 

Groaning, Hermione, circled a bassinet in red marker. “Don't.”

 

Ron nodded, and Susan sobered, looking at him almost fretfully. “I love you,” she said, breathlessly, staring into Ron's eyes.

 

“I know,” he intoned, lifting his eyebrow in a haughty look.

 

“I'm _going to leave_ ,” Hermione threatened, and stood. Susan laughed as Ron's hand locked around her wrist, pulling her back into her seat.

 

Chuckling, he released her, and said, “You're such a poor sport.”

 

“I _really_ want to watch Star Wars again,” Susan murmured, thoughtfully. She stood, heading for the bathroom. “Also, _no one_ told me that being pregnant made you need to use the loo all the time. All the books go _on_ and _on_ about tender breasts, and not a single paragraph dedicated to the bladder. I should write my _own_ book,” she muttered. She was still ranting quietly to herself when she closed the bathroom door.

 

Ron smiled fondly after her, and Hermione stifled the urge to roll her eyes. If they could stop being so blissfully in love _right at her_ , that'd be just great. Because it was really annoying. Cute, too, but also so annoying. _So annoying_.

 

“How's George doing?” she asked, curiously. She hadn't been by the Burrow much lately, and she was pretty sure she'd last seen him at her own wedding.

 

The fond smile fell right off Ron's face as he groaned. “He's a grade-A _prat_ , as usual. He hasn't been by the shop to work the actual counter in _weeks_. He wants me to open _and_ close, while he flits in and out to glance over the paperwork between snogging Angelina's dumb face off her skull. He says he's wedding planning, but I know my brother and he's _not_ planning a sodding wedding.”

 

“You know, the shop's doing really well, these days. Why don't you hire someone?”

 

“ _Thank_ you, because I've been saying that for _months_. We could easily afford to hire someone to watch the counter!” Ron exclaimed, gesturing wildly. “And if he thinks I'm going to keep up these ridiculous hours when I'm a _father_ , he's in for a surprise.”

 

Hermione squinted. “Has he made you co-owner, yet?” she asked, gently. That was sort of a sore topic for all involved; although George had promised to do so more than a year ago, the promise always failed to materialize somehow. Given how stormy Ron's expression grew, she surmised that George hadn't made good on it over the past month, either. “You could always threaten to quit.”

 

“He knows I'd be bluffing,” he said, bitterly.

 

Susan came back out, drying her hands on her jeans, and said, “Bluffing about what?”

 

“Quitting the shop,” Ron sighed. “Because, as Hermione reminded me, I'm _still_ not co-owner. I'm just... a _shop-boy_.”

 

“That's not true, the last four products the shop came out with were _yours_ ,” Susan defended him, putting a soothing hand on his knee. “And they're selling brilliantly. You said so, yourself. It's as much your shop as it is his... it's just a matter of paperwork, at this point.”

 

“Maybe he just doesn't want... You know. To have to replace his name,” Hermione suggested, gently.

 

Ron flinched a bit. “Well, now _I_ feel like a prat.”

 

“Don't,” Hermione laughed, softly. “He made you a promise, and whatever the reasons, he should still keep it. And you're a good partner, and he's an idiot if he doesn't recognize that.”

 

He inhaled raggedly, and sent her a crooked smile. “Okay, this is getting too serious for my liking. Did you pick out a new crib, yet?”

 

“I circled a few,” she said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly as she turned the catalog over to his grasping hands. Susan leaned into his shoulder to look them over with him, her arms circling his waist, and Hermione decided then and there that maybe they _were_ more cute than annoying. Just a bit, though.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Change of plans,” Draco announced, as soon as she stepped out of the Floo. Wide-eyed, she just stared at him, unaware that there had _been_ plans to begin with. “We have to go to the Manor for dinner in about thirty minutes.”

 

Hermione groaned, her head tilting back as she turned to stomp down the hallway.

 

“You stole her _only son_ out from under her roof!” he called after her, his voice equal parts accusing and amused. “If all she asks in return for losing the precious gem that is _me_ is the occasional dress-up dinner, you got the better end of the deal.”

 

“Is it too late to return you?” she snarked, pulling off her t-shirt. She didn't even want to _contemplate_ what she'd have to _wear_ over there.

 

“There is a sixty day return policy. You're _months_ overdue,” he called back, apologetically.

 

She unbuttoned her jeans and opened the closet door, sighing at the parade of dresses that greeted her. Draco had pulled his favorites up to the front, and she felt petty _enough_ after being kicked out of her own house all day to walk right past them. “I'll just put you in with the _rubbish_ then.”

 

“Don't ignore my picks!” he barked back, and Hermione wrinkled her nose a bit. Sometimes it seemed like he knew her too well.

  
Or he'd gotten really, _really_ into Muggle stuff and had spy cameras placed all over the flat.

 

Leaning on the closet door, she yelled, “As a _grown woman_ , I reserve the right to _dress myself_!”

 

He appeared in her bedroom door, wiping his hands on a towel. She hadn't even heard the sink run from him washing up. Apparently she had to endure the reek of potions at all hours of the day, but his parents were spared _that_ joy for the two hours they spent with their son this week. “As a grown woman with the dress sense of a blind dog, you can reserve the right all you want, but do you _really_ want to spend the next thirty minutes trying not to cave into my whinging?” he pointed out, with a smug smile.

 

Hermione scowled at him and yanked the closet door closed, pulling the chain that activated the lonely overhead light.

 

The door opened immediately, and she huffed, “I'm _putting on_ the stupid red one you like, so just--” Her protest was cut short as his arms wrapped around her, hauling her in for a quick but forceful kiss.

 

He pulled back, his smug smile widening a bit when he took in her wide eyes and shocked expression. “Missed you, today,” he said, warmly, before stepping back out and closing the closet door again. Hermione gaped at the door for a moment, trying to force a scowl through the urge to smile.

 

“ _You're_ the reason I had to leave in the _first_ place,” she complained, when she got the power of speech back. She changed into a bra with a more delicate strap before pulling the red dress off the hanger.

 

His voice was muffled from the closed door. “I can't help it if your beauty distracts me.”

 

“Oh, it's my _beauty_ , now, is it? Because I seem to recall that six hours ago it was my 'nagging' and the 'shrill piercing quality' of my voice.” She stepped into the dress, tugging it up over her hips.

 

“Don't forget that incessant coughing,” he muttered, low enough that she could tell that he hoped she wouldn't hear.

 

Hermione kicked the door open, pulling the straps over her shoulders and adjusting her breasts within the dress itself. “Excuse me?” she demanded, shrilly, and he grimaced a bit. “And just _who's_ fault is it that I was coughing? _Who_ flooded the room with green smoke when his potion bubbled over? Was that _me_?”

 

He mastered his expression and pivoted on his heel to face her, smiling. “So you understand how frustrated I was and how ready I was to _give up_ when I had the ready alternative of shagging you,” he pointed out, in a reasonable tone. “You had to be removed.”

 

“Nice try,” she snipped, running her fingers along her bra-strap to make sure that it was fully covered by the straps of the dress.

 

Draco shrugged a bit, sighing. It had been worth a shot.

 

She headed out towards the bathroom to throw on a quick layer of eyeliner and mascara. “What did you eat for lunch?” she asked, curiously.

 

“I forgot.”

 

“Draco!” Hermione chided, frowning at her reflection. He appeared in the hallway, pulling on his waistcoat. She watched him frown at the buttons for a moment before looking up at her reflection, his lips quirking a bit in amusement.

 

He loved that Gaping Koi Fish look she got on her face whenever she was applying mascara. “I'll eat double tomorrow,” he promised.

 

“That's _not_ how it works.” Finishing, she fanned her eyelashes for a second before turning to him. He let his hands fall away from his waistcoat as she quickly finished doing up the thirty or so tiny buttons. For all that she complained about them (Draco insisted that these were the fashion, although the only other person she saw these ridiculous garments on was Lucius), she'd grown deft at manipulating the little things. “You promised me when I left that you'd remember to eat.”

 

“I know,” he sighed, contrite. “I'm sorry. I will, next time.”

 

“You've already proven that you _cannot be trusted_. Time?”

 

He twisted his wrist about to look at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. That's almost enough time for a snog,” he added, brightly.

 

“No, you'll ruin my hair.”

 

“I'll keep my hands behind my back,” he insisted.

 

She straightened his waistcoat by tugging on the bottom of it a few times, and narrowed her eyes up at him. “You promise that _every_ time and not _once_ have you managed to not turn my hair into a bird's nest. You can snog me when we're home.”

 

His expression turned grim. “They warned me the romance would die once the marriage began,” he said, theatrically.

 

“Not the romance,” she corrected, primly. “Just the sex.”

 

Draco through a hand over his heart, as if wounded, and gave her a look of utter and wretched betrayal. She flashed him a grin and pushed onto her toes to give him a peck. Immediately, his hands folded around her neck to pull her in deeper, and she made a protesting noise against his mouth, beating at his chest with her fists.

 

He made a whining noise as she succeeded in ripping herself away. “ _No_. I felt your fingers start to go in!” she accused, smoothing down her hair.

 

“That was your imagination!” he swore, although his gaze flicked briefly to her ear as he said it – and, amazingly, Hermione had come to recognize that as one of his _tells_. He didn't always have tells when he lied, but sometimes if he grew unguarded enough, they came out. An inability to keep direct eye contact was one of his big ones. His eyes never flicked far, staying so close to the target that most people probably never noticed they'd left at all.

 

But she did. Pointing at him, she said, “When we're _home_.”

 

“We're home _now_.”

 

“ _After_ dinner,” she amended, smoothly. She slipped past him to grab the matching red shoes that Narcissa had bought just for this dress. She turned halfway into the room, walking backwards around the bed as she added, impishly, “If you want to find me my nice red lipstick, I'll leave imprints of my lips anywhere you want the second we're home.”

 

Draco's eyes widened a smidgen, and he disappeared into the bathroom. She could hear him violently tearing apart the contents of her drawers.

 

Chuckling, she leaned against the bed as she pulled her shoes on, slipping the strap over her heel. As she headed back out into the hallway, Draco appeared in the bathroom doorway, a triumphant look on his face as he held up the little black tube. She took it, uncapping it to confirm the color, and said, “Get your coat on.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Although she was sure they'd both _meant_ to go straight home after dinner, Hermione found herself in Lucius' study right after dessert, poring over her latest proposal for werewolf rights. She had pulled a chair beside his at his desk and was leaning over to read, steadily chewing the lipstick off her lower lip. “But I don't want to give the impression that I _want_ a registry,” she finally complained.

 

Lucius sighed through his nose. They'd been rehashing her various moral scruples for the last half hour. “I understand,” he said, and she heard actual _impatience_ permeate his drawl. “However, this is about more than just you. You have an audience – the Wizengamot. And _they_ want a registry.”

 

“So I have to pretend to want something barbaric and disgusting because I know _they_ do?” she demanded, frowning at the paper.

 

“Yes,” he said, flatly. When she looked up at him, surprised by his bluntness, he continued, softly: “You are selling a product, Hermione. A proper salesperson speaks to their audience, entices them to buy. You can't do that if you look like you don't believe in the product – or if you look as though you're uncertain of it. This registry will speak to their desire for safety and control. In return, Wolfsbane will be available over-the-counter at local apothecaries. Potionsmasters will be rolling in riches for the first time in nearly a century over the demand.”

 

“What if it gets prohibitively expensive?” she asked, frowning.

 

He shook his head. “An apothecary will always offer it for a lower price. They will attempt to undermine each other until they no longer can. The market will resolve itself.”

 

“It doesn't always work that cleanly.”

 

“Then I suppose you and Draco shall have to go into business together and sell it for the meanest profit imaginable,” he said, implacably. “You're both skilled enough.”

 

 _That_ halted her next protest, and she looked down at the proposal. Of course, she'd nearly forgotten. She was a _Malfoy_ now, and if she decided ever-so-casually to go into business to sell something at cost, she could, because she was sitting on more wealth than she could even begin to imagine. It was amazing, how many doors of possibility just _flew_ open when money was readily available.

 

“What if there are still werewolves that don't want to register?” she asked, softly.

 

He looked thoughtful, leaning back in his chair. “I suppose we could include a clause that limits purchases of Wolfsbane to registered werewolves,” he murmured.

 

“No!” she protested, promptly. “No. It should be _freely_ available, no questions asked.”

 

Lucius gave her a nasal sigh, looking exhausted by her naivete. “I will not be the only person to consider that option,” he said, flatly. He'd grown so blunt, ever since the marriage. Apparently the Malfoy charm was reserved for non-family members. “If this proposal passes, then failing to register will be illegal. Buying the potion as a non-registered wizard will earn questions.”

 

Hermione sighed. “There should be a sub-department of Magical Creatures that can act upon hiring prejudice,” she muttered. “Because I just _know_ people are still going to--”

 

“Yes, they will _still_ endeavor not to hire werewolves. You cannot stop that, Hermione. At least, not today,” he added, in a gentler tone – _after_ seeing the stricken look on her face. “Change is a series of small steps, not one big leap. The first step is the hardest, for _everyone_. After that, it gets easier.” He slid the proposal to her, again. “If you fail to take the first step, you'll fail the entire cause. If there has ever been a fitting use for that fabled 'Gryffindor courage,' I believe this is it.”

 

She stared at the proposal. “Are you always this confident?” she asked, a little plaintively.

 

“If you're referring to whether or not I am confident in my ability to affect change, then yes,” he said. “Although that confidence was hard-won through years of trial and error under the stern tutelage of my father.”

 

“I was asking about your confidence in knowing you're making the right decision, actually.”

 

Lucius fixed her with an enigmatic stare. “Can anyone be sure of that?” he wondered. “If you allow yourself to be plagued endlessly by such questions, you'll never achieve anything. This is written in ink on paper, Hermione. It's not chiseled in stone. Laws can be overturned, re-interpreted, or changed utterly. Turn that in,” he advised, picking the paper up and handing it to her. “And I believe I will release you, at this time, because Draco has walked past the study door no less than twelve times in the past five minutes.”

 

With that, he stood, leaving Hermione blinking owlishly at the study door. As if on cue, Draco strolled past, glaring inside.

 

Rolling her eyes, she stood, too. “I'll turn it in,” she decided. “You know, I'd like to pick your brain about a few other things. Are you free for lunch this week, at all?”

 

Lucius blinked, stalling for a moment. Hermione realized that this was the first time she'd ever actually asked for his assistance – or invited _him_ anywhere. She didn't feel too bad about that last bit, though, because to be _fair_ , Lucius was also kind of a git and nobody in their right mind would invite him into their lives to be an utter arsehole at them. Or so she'd thought, at one point, before she'd gotten to know him a little better. “My schedule is not very full,” he said, as though he were _not at all_ interested in meeting with her and was, in fact, doing her a favor by even considering it. “I will owl you my availability.”

 

Hermione pressed her lips together so she didn't laugh. “Thank you,” she said, managing to _not_ sound amused _even a little_. She really was getting good at this.

 

She preceded him out of the study, the proposal tucked under her arm. Draco had disappeared from the hallway when he'd seen them both standing, and was waiting at the Floo with a large, rounded object covered in a blanket. Hermione stopped mid-sentence when she saw it, frowning in confusion.

 

Then, something under the blanket gave a soft _hoot_.

 

“No,” she said, immediately, putting her hands on her hips. “No. Not that _thing_ you call your owl.”

 

“Hercules,” Draco said, scowling defensively as he placed a soft hand on the top of the cage. “And you can keep your _comments_ to yourself about him.”

 

“The _very first time_ he bites me, he's going to live on the roof,” she threatened, stalking towards the Floo with Lucius sauntering lightly at her heels. The clipped noise of heels heralded Narcissa's return, a little bag of Hercules' things held daintily in her hand. The fact that she looked ready to burst into tears over the seeming finality of Draco's familiar leaving the Manor stayed Hermione's tongue, which was a miracle because she had _plenty_ of rant left.

 

“You've always hated my owl, and for no reason,” Draco insisted, smiling at his mother as he took the bag from her. “Thank you, Mum,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

 

“The only Malfoy owl that has _any_ semblance of manners--”

 

“Is my _father's_ , yes, I _know_ ,” Draco finished for her, rolling his eyes a bit. “For all you complain about the Potterwife, you can _really_ hold a grudge, yourself, you know.”

 

Lucius looked surprised and a little smug that apparently his owl was the reigning favorite, and sent Narcissa a triumphant look. Narcissa squinted at him, shaking her head a bit as she tried desperately to work out _why_ on _Earth_ Lucius considered that a battle worth winning. When he shrugged, she sighed and turned to her son. “Now that you have your owl, you have no excuse for not writing,” she said, threading her fingers together in front of her anxiously.

 

“I know, Mum. I'll write,” he promised. “Every day. Every hour. On the hour.”

 

“We'll be back for dinner, soon,” Hermione promised, once again feeling a stab of guilt over Narcissa's emotional upheaval. When her mother-in-law nodded, her eyes glistening a bit, she stepped forward to press a kiss to Narcissa's cheek. “Thank you, also. It was lovely, as usual.”

 

“Good night, dear,” Narcissa returned, sniffing slightly. Lucius inclined his head in silence, apparently considering that an adequate echo of Narcissa's sentiments.

 

Then, they were through the Floo, and after a heated argument about where to put Hercules' cage, he handed her that little tube of bright red lipstick and told her to re-apply it, because she had a promise to make good on.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Hello, Granger.” Pansy's cool voice felt like ice trickling down her spine, and Hermione froze for just one little second before turning to smile at her.

 

“It's Malfoy, actually,” she said, in a saccharine tone.

 

Pansy's face puckered a bit, sour, but she rolled her eyes and the expression faded away a bit. When her eyes stopped rolling, they landed on the parchments scattered over Hermione's desk, flicking over them in the briefest display of curiosity before boredom overtook her. Then her eyes flicked back to Hermione, and before the bushy-haired witch could even begin to wonder what she was _doing_ there, Pansy spoke. “It's almost lunch. You free?”

 

Hermione's eyebrows flew up. “You're asking me to lunch?” she blurted out, incredulous.

 

The girl's eyes narrowed a bit, her lips pursing. “Do you need me to answer that?” she asked, sarcastically. “Or...?”

 

“If you're going to be a _prat_...”

 

Pansy made a frustrated noise in her throat, a scowl briefly crossing her pretty face as her eyes flicked over the sea of cubicles. She was clearly worried about being overheard, although Hermione _highly doubted_ any of Pansy's _friends_ worked in Magical Creatures. “Fine. Yes, I am. So, do you want to go with me, or not?” she demanded, haughtily.

 

Hesitating, Hermione took in Pansy's fur coat, the elegant lines of her legs and those fashionable little booties. She looked like something straight out of a fashion magazine.

 

Finally, she took in Pansy's expression, that weird mixture of arrogance and uncertainty.

 

Then, she shrugged. “Sure, alright. Let me finish up, here. Shouldn't take more than a minute. Uh, you can sit, if you want,” she added, nodding her chin at the little chair to the side of her desk.

 

Pansy eyed it with open skepticism. “I'll stand,” she decided.

 

“Suit yourself,” Hermione huffed, turning back to her work. She finished the thought she'd been writing down before Pansy arrived, and organized her papers briefly. “We'll have to stop by the DMLE. I have a standing lunch date with Harry I'll need to cancel.”

 

“I'll meet you out front.” And with a swirl of what _looked_ like wolf fur, she was gone.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

A few minutes later, Hermione was bundling up against the chill as she stepped out onto the street. A wind was tearing through the buildings, and it immediately played havoc with her hair as she crossed the short distance to Pansy. The woman looked – damn her – perfectly comfortable, even with only a thin layer of pantyhose protecting her otherwise bared legs.

 

“Did you have a place in mind, already?” Hermione asked, and spit out some of her own hair that had blown into her face.

 

“I shudder to think what kind of place I'd end up if _you_ picked,” Pansy scoffed, and turned to head down the street. Behind her, Hermione bit back a blistering retort. She sort of felt like she owed it to Draco to at least _try_ to play nice. He'd done plenty of that with her own friends, after all.

 

On the other hand, _her_ friends weren't unapologetic arseholes.

 

They spent the walk in mostly frosty silence, and ended up in a restaurant that managed to look both austerely elegant and 'hip.' Quite a lot of young purebloods or half-bloods dotted the tables, even at _lunch_ time. Hermione tried not to stare at anyone as she followed Pansy and the hostess to their table, one of the attendants at the door helping both her and Pansy out of their respective robes (and furs). Pansy's dress sort of reminded Hermione of the roaring twenties.

 

They sat facing each other, staring each other down as the hostess listed off some of the daily specials while handing them each a menu.

 

The silence reigned for just a moment longer when they were finally alone, eyes boring into each other over the tops of said menus. Hermione finally broke. “What's this about, Parkinson?”

 

She shrugged, elegantly. “Draco is my friend. That means we should try to be decent to each other, doesn't it?”

 

Eyebrows lifting, Hermione asked, carefully, “He's _just_ a friend?”

 

Pansy glared at her. “It's been years since we dated,” she said, flatly. “And yes, we are _just_ friends. I don't have any lingering _feelings_ for him, to answer the question you're trying to avoid asking.”

 

Hermione cocked her head a bit, trying to recall if Pansy had _always_ been this blunt. When the woman began perusing the menu, she let the conversation drop as she did the same, scanning it and trying not to notice the _ridiculous_ prices attached to each item. Thank God for that Malfoy fortune, she supposed, because otherwise her budget would have been somewhat tight for the rest of the week.

 

Neither did anything to break the silence again, speaking only to the waiter after he arrived to take their menus and their orders.

 

When he was gone, they were back to staring at each other.

 

Just when Hermione was ready to throw her hands up and declare that she'd given up and was going back to work, Pansy spoke. “He told me he moved into your flat.”

 

“Er, yes.”

 

“Is it small?” she wondered, with an almost detached sense of curiosity.

 

Hermione shrugged a shoulder, vaguely uncomfortable. “It feels big enough, to me,” she said, although suddenly she wasn't so sure of that. After all, Draco had gone from a fifty-room manor to-- well, a three-room flat. Four rooms, if you counted the bathroom.

 

Which she didn't.

 

“Why didn't you just move into a bigger one?” Pansy wondered.

 

“I like mine,” Hermione said, a little defensively. “And what would we do with the extra space? It's not like we already have kids.”

 

“You'd have a room for his potions bench,” she pointed out. “A library for your reading. You could have an office for when you take your work home.” Alright. So had Draco been _talking_ to Pansy about Hermione and her life, or was she just that predictable? The third option being, of course, that Pansy was simply _that_ gifted intuitively. Hermione felt like she could cross that option out.

 

She shook her head a bit. “I don't mind doing that stuff in the living room and the kitchen table,” she muttered. She had sort of grown to _like_ listening to Draco putter about his bench while she read. She didn't really want to relegate him to another room for it.

 

“Ugh, I'll never understand poor people,” Pansy complained, idly.

 

The waiter returned with the Chardonnay she'd ordered before Hermione could snap something back, and she felt the insult claw around inside her throat before she swallowed it back down. _Play nice_ , she told herself. _Play nice for Draco_.

 

Although maybe he'd be proud of her if she just managed not to choke Pansy to death with her bare hands. She knew Harry and Ron probably would be.

 

“So how're things going with you, then?” Hermione asked, trying to steer the conversation as far away from Draco and her flat as possible. When Pansy launched into an exhaustive tale of her attempts at starting her own fashion line, she sighed a bit with relief when it looked like she'd succeeded. And, well, hell – Pansy had dreams. She'd certainly never known _that_. She'd never even bothered to wonder – in her head, all pureblooded children just sat around waiting to inherit their parents' money so they could happily do nothing forever.

 

She supposed that, in the end, that assumption didn't make much sense. It was human nature to find meaning in one's life, after all.

 

By the time their appetizers had arrived, she was surprised to see that Pansy had grown almost _animated_ as she spoke about her future clothing line. “I could show you some of my sketches,” she offered. “I think I might even have pieces that would help minimize your hips.”

 

Ignoring the poke at her hips (seriously, piss off, though), Hermione said, “I didn't know you drew.”

 

Pansy nodded, looking briefly shy. Hermione marveled at the expression, and wished Harry was there to _see_ it because she was pretty certain no one would ever believe it had happened. “I paint, sometimes, too,” she admitted. “Not very seriously, though. I try to stay focused on my clothing sketches. Painters just don't make _names_ for themselves, you know? At least, not while they're alive.”

 

Chuckling, Hermione conceded the point with a tilt of her head. “Fair enough. What kind of stuff do you like to paint?”

 

“People,” Pansy said, the answer prompt. “I'm not very interested in still lifes, and I find landscapes awfully boring. I painted Draco in fifth year. He hated it. Said I got his chin wrong and it wasn't that pointy,” she added, with another eyeroll. “Of course, it was a perfectly accurate picture. But I guess most people don't like to see that version of themselves.”

 

“Wouldn't they see it every time they looked in a mirror?” Hermione wondered, doubtfully.

 

“No. Every time a person goes up to a mirror, they subconsciously angle their head to try and get the best version of themselves,” Pansy said, with ruthless confidence in her observation. “And they're very well-practiced at it, after all these years. I don't think any adult in the world really knows what they look like, actually.”

 

Stunned, Hermione just stared at her. That was probably the deepest and most interesting thing she'd ever heard Pansy say, and to be honest, she wasn't sure how to take it.

 

Pansy pulled a face as she dissected her ceviche with her knife and fork. “I don't know why they insist on putting _flounder_ in this,” she sneered. She used her knife to edge the flaking pieces of fish to the side of the plate, and speared some squid with her fork. “All it ever does is fall apart. And it soaks up too much of the flavor. It's practically inedible.”

 

“You should have gotten the terrine,” Hermione said, gesturing at her own plate. “It's good.”

 

“I should have,” Pansy agreed.

 

“Do you want a bite?”

 

Pansy blinked up at her, startled by the offer, and looked around. “Off your plate?” she asked, openly stunned.

 

Hermione laughed, softly. “Sure?” She pushed the plate towards her.

 

She glanced around the restaurant again, almost as though she were doing something _illegal_ , and then quickly speared a bite of Hermione's food with her fork. She pushed it into her mouth quickly, afraid of getting caught. Her eyes had nearly lit up with mischief, and Hermione once again found herself _fascinated_ by the transformation. “That is good,” Pansy said, quietly, after swallowing. Then she smiled, and Hermione nearly pinched herself, _sure_ that she was dreaming.

 

When she realized that Pansy was _actually smiling_ and not smirking or sneering, she smiled back.

 


	55. The Economy of Marriage

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Five: The Economy of a Marriage**

…

Harry was already waiting in her cubicle when she returned. "So, how did it go?" he demanded, the second he saw her. "Tell me _everything_." Hermione just stared at him, and he paled. "Oh, no," he whispered, his eyes going wide. "I'm Ginny."

She shook her head at him. "That was scary. Don't ever do that again. For a second I thought someone was Polyjuicing as you."

"Ugh. Nevermind," he groaned, waving her words out of his face impatiently. "Just tell me so I have some good gossip to feed my wife when I get home. You have no idea how important gossip is to the economy of a marriage. Without gossip to feed a mutual contempt for others, it falls apart like _that_." He snapped his fingers in demonstration.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione shooed him out of her chair and sat. "It was fine," she said. "Surprisingly so."

"So, she was... _nice_?" he asked, with a doubtful squint, perching on the edge of her desk and crossing his ankles.

"Well, let's not get too crazy with the adjectives," she replied, in a dry tone. "She wasn't as _openly horrible_ as she has previously been. I don't know if Parkinson knows _how_ to be nice. The nicest thing she did was offer to show me a painting she did of Draco back in school."

Taken aback, Harry blinked at nothing for a second. "She _paints_?" She at _least_ felt a little vindicated that Harry was as surprised to discover this as she had been.

"I guess she used to, but not so much, these days. She's trying to start her own fashion line," she added, thoughtfully. "Apparently doing so requires more than funding, because she's been having some trouble with it."

In fact, it seemed like the whole thing kind of hinged on the approval of a few key movers and shakers in the wizarding fashion community – and without that seal of approval, you were a ghost. All the money in the _world_ couldn't force people to wear your clothes, after all. Pansy had spent the past six months waiting to hear back from one of them, and the only reason she'd been able to send her sketches to him to _begin_ with was because her mother had once had a tryst with the man before her marriage to Pansy's father.

Or _something_. Pansy talked so quickly that Hermione honestly found it difficult to catch most of what she was saying. She sounded like a one-woman film noir detective film, often responding to herself or speaking over her own thoughts in a confusing jumble. She considered it a feat that she'd even gotten the _gist_ of it.

"Weird," Harry muttered, finally. "Anyway. Did you and Draco want to pop by for dinner, tonight?"

"No," she said, firmly. "I had to spend all of yesterday out and about and then I had to go to dinner at the Manor. I am going to stay in tonight," she vowed, annoyed. "If I have to _kill myself_ in the locked bathroom, I am going to _stay in_."

His eyes widened as he threw up his hands in surrender. "Alright, good God," he said, laughing. "And try to leave that as a last resort, will you?" He stood, needing to head back to his own desk, and leaned down to dot a kiss onto her forehead. "Because if I have to comfort a crying _Draco Malfoy_ , I am going to find your ghost and haul you back through some magical means and give you _such_ a telling off."

"I think it's sweet that you acknowledge that you would comfort him," Hermione said, smirking faintly.

He made an aggrieved noise and whirled on his heel to stalk out, her laughter following him out of the department and all the way into the hall.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Pansy invited us over to hers for dinner," Draco said, as soon as she Flooed in.

Hermione gaped at him. "No!" she said, stomping her foot a little. He gave her a weird look, his eyebrows drawing together at the uncommon display of childishness. "No, I had to spend _all weekend_ out of my house and I am going to stay in and read a good book," she ranted, shrugging her robes off in angry movements. "And I just had _lunch_ with her! Surely-"

"Wait, what?" Draco interrupted, his eyebrows flying up.

She flicked her wand, sending the robe across the room and onto the coat rack. She headed for the bedroom, reaching into the back of her shirt to start undoing her bra. It was one Ginny had picked out, and it _itched_ and had been slowly driving her mad over the course of the day. "She stopped by my desk and asked me to lunch. Took me to this posh place. L'Oranges or something-"

He followed her, openly fascinated by the mental picture she was painting. "L'Oranje Doux?" he asked, and his eyebrows crawled impossibly further up his head.

"Yes. Oh, by the way, I had to sign it to your Gringotts account," she said, grimacing a bit in apology. She picked up the green Quidditch undershirt Draco had given her for her birthday, and put it on the bed while she peeled her shirt and bra off. "I wasn't sure if I had that much in mine. I'll transfer the Galleons just as soon as I get my next paycheck-"

He flicked a hand dismissively. "The account is yours, too," he said, impatiently returning to the more interesting subject. "Why'd she ask you to lunch?"

Hermione pulled on the undershirt with a sigh of relief. It really _was_ comfortable. She wasn't sure what charms he'd used on it, but she wanted to ask him to charm the _rest_ of her clothes the same way. As she unzipped her skirt, she shrugged. "She said that you were her friend and it only made sense that we be decent to each other."

Draco watched her slip out of her skirt and toss it into the laundry hamper. "And were you?"

"Shockingly, yes. That being said, owl her right now and tell her I can't make it tonight. You can go, if you want," she added, pulling her current book off the nightstand and marching past him back to the living room. The undershirt was long enough to cover her bum the tops of her thighs, and he took a moment to flick his gaze appreciatively over her legs (and yes, okay, the sight of her in _his_ shirt caught more than a little of his interest). "But I'm staying," she announced, flopping onto the couch and opening the book right on her lap.

He meandered out. "Alright, we'll reschedule for later in the week," he agreed. "I suppose you're not _cooking_ tonight, either."

"Nope," she said, popping the 'p.' "You should go out and bring me home something."

"Curry?"

She smiled up at him, and for a moment he just looked at her, trying to take a mental snapshot of this particular moment. Hermione was curled up against the arm of the couch, her hair already starting to fall out of the clip she'd put it in for work. His Quidditch undershirt clouded around her form, but was too-big in a captivating sort of way, showing off her collarbones and the smooth, pale flesh of her shoulder. She was sitting cross-legged, the book open in her lap and her bare toes curling against the slight chill of the room.

"Sure," she said, and for a second he forgot what he'd even asked her. Recalling (after a few odd seconds of just staring at her in bewilderment), he nodded, and pulled on his coat. "And something sweet," she added.

"Like what?"

"Surprise me," she said, earning a narrow, disbelieving look from her husband. Hermione, as a _rule_ , didn't much care for surprises. "When it comes to the matter of sweets, I trust you implicitly."

He rolled his eyes. "It's been _years_ since I went crazy at Honeydukes. How _long_ must I wear the yoke of those memories?"

"You ask 'how long' as if it'll ever stop," she said, making a big show of looking confused.

Draco huffed as he grabbed a scarf and headed for the Floo, her amused chuckles chasing him through the flames to the Leady Cauldron.

0o0o0o0o0o0

She headed to bed first, knackered from the day and full of curry. He'd wanted to stay up and mess around with his potion, saying it was nearly done. If it actually turned out, that is. Which, given the _last_ twelve attempts, was beginning to seem more and more unlikely. She'd refrained from offering to help again, since he actually seemed almost _happy_ to have a problem that was all his to deal with.

At God- _knows_ -what-time, he was shaking her awake. "Hermione!" he hissed, jostling her. She immediately scrambled for her wand, trying to shake the sleep out of her eyes.

"What, what is it?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from sleep.

"No danger," he assured her, and his fingers tightened on her shoulders a bit when she sagged in relief. Quickly, he leaned in to kiss her, and she leaned into it, sighing softly. He smelled like crushed thyme and wormroot, but there was something else to the smell, now. She caught a heady whiff of lilac and freshly turned dirt. "The potion came out. It's purple. I think it worked."

She was instantly alert. "When you say 'worked'-?"

"The recipe worked. I doubt it's the Alkahest," he said, with a faint huff. "But come look at it, anyway."

She slid out of bed, scrubbing the sleep out of her eyes and yawning as she padded out into the living room behind him. The lilac and fresh dirt smell grew stronger as she moved towards the potion bench, where the potion was emanating a soft, light purple glow. Hermione stared into it, realizing she'd never seen any potion like it, before.

The purple glow lit up Draco's face. He was a perfect canvas for it, his bleached-bone skin capturing the shade perfectly, like a mirror. "I've never heard of anything like this," she said, uncertainly. "What do you suppose it does?"

"In all likelihood? Nothing," he said, with a soft laugh. "But, according to my father's _book_ , it's supposed to dissolve everything that touches it into its base parts. Although, it is not-" He began to write that down. "Dissolving... the... cauldron." He turned and scooted into the kitchen, leaving Hermione alone with the potion for a moment.

When he returned, he had a blueberry. He held it over the cauldron, and Hermione stopped him, wide-eyed. "What are you doing? You have _no idea_ what that will do," she hissed.

"And how do you suppose I find out? By _not_ doing it?"

She frowned at him. This was why, she supposed, she was not cut out for the lifestyle of the Weasley twins. Creation of new things was always so uncertain, and she had no desire to cause an _acid explosion_ because Draco wanted to play with his new potion. "Use your wand, and we stand all the way over _there_ ," she finally conceded.

He rolled his eyes, but a minute later they were across the room, Hermione's hand around his elbow as he pointed his wand at the floating blueberry. She was ready, at the first sign of trouble, to Side-Along Apparate him to safety.

Her grip tightened as the blueberry floated over the cauldron, and dropped in with a soft _plorp_.

They both held their breath and waited. Nothing. No explosion. No reaction from the potion at all. He started for the cauldron, and she followed cautiously, eying the purple glow with suspicion.

"Is it gone?" she asked. She couldn't see into the opaque fluid.

Draco stuck his wand in and swirled it a bit, trying to find it. "I don't know. You wouldn't let me _watch_ ," he reminded her, testily. "I'm going to get another one. You know, I might make this potion again just for the smell. It smells like when the elves used to bake my birthday cake."

Hermione's head snapped up, watching his form briefly silhouetted in the kitchen's bright light as he disappeared to get a blueberry. "What?" she asked. "What do you smell?"

"Vanilla, I suppose. It smells kind of sweet, like... vanilla, or marzipan, don't you think? You don't smell that?" he asked, curiously.

She eyed the potion for a long time, and finally managed a soft, "No. Not at all."

"What do you smell?"

"Soil," she said, softly. "And... something flowery. I think lilac." He reappeared at her side with another blueberry in his fingers, looking speculatively at the potion.

"Interesting," he said, softly, and dropped the blueberry in.

The blueberry hit the potion and bobbed at the surface for a moment. It shrunk, becoming pale, and then disappeared below the surface. Hermione stared after it. Then she said, "I think I have an orange in there."

"On it." He darted to the kitchen.

0o0o0o0o0o0

They were up until nearly two in the morning putting various objects in the potion. Fruit shrunk, paling, and then eventually disappeared. A piece of ham seized up almost _violently_ , twisting in on itself as it blackened and shriveled. She'd found a thimble and put it in, and it glowed red-hot for a moment, causing the potion around it to steam as it sank out of sight. When she tried stirring the concoction with her wand, she could feel the thimble clinking around. So at least they knew that it didn't dissolve metal. Some Alkahest this had turned out to be.

"One of us should try touching it," Draco finally said.

Hermione turned to stare at him. "Are you out of your God damn mind?" she enunciated, her eyebrows shooting up. "What reaction did you see in there that made you think, 'Hey, I should touch this'?"

He shrugged. "At least we'd know what would happen if we did."

"That's idiotic. Do _not_ touch this thing. And frankly, until we get to the bottom of the whole differing smells mystery, I think we should probably leave it alone," she said, almost regretfully. Playing with it had been sort of engrossing.

Draco sighed. "But nothing bad has really happened."

"Even so. Until we know precisely what we're dealing with, I say we leave it be."

He threw his hands up in frustration. "How are we supposed to know what we're dealing with if we _don't_ experiment?" he pointed out.

"Well, then, you have to experiment somewhere _safe_ with it, not in my bloody _flat_ with no protective gear on," she huffed, crossing her arms. "I can ask Ron if you can use their little laboratory in the shop. You'll probably have to deal with George Weasley if you do, though," she added, with an apologetic wince.

"Pass," he ground out. He got on fine with Ron these days, but George Weasley was pushing it. "I'll take it to the Manor."

"I'm getting you some of the gear from the shop, anyway, then," she said. "And you are _not_ to _touch_ it until you're wearing _all_ of it. _Promise_ me." He looked mutinous, and she added, "Or I'll throw it all down the drain _right now_!"

He ground his teeth together. "Alright, _Mum_. Calm down, your voice is doing that thing where it sounds like a screeching teapot again."

"Call me a screeching teapot again and see where it gets you," she warned. "I'm going back to bed. Cover that thing up and join me. We've played with it more than enough in a single night, and I've still work tomorrow."

He grunted in affirmation, rooting around for his cauldron's lid.

Minutes later, she felt the mattress dip behind her. It was already growing cooler, and she found that she didn't feel the need for a cooling charm before she rolled into him. The band of his arm around her waist was an immediate comfort.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The next morning, she was the one shaking him awake. "Draco, your potion," she murmured. "It's, um, I guess expired?"

"What?" he demanded, shooting up from the bed and sprinting into the living room. The potion had turned rather drab and gray, and she found she could no longer smell lilac and freshly-turned soil. Actually, she didn't smell anything but the usual wormwood and thyme. "Damn," he cursed, rooting around for his notes. "I should have stayed up to see what the actual range of stability was. It looks like it was less than six hours," he added, incredulously. "Given that it takes nearly a week to bloody brew, that's monstrously short."

Hermione shrugged, helplessly. "Well, when you brew it again, you need to experiment with it somewhere other than here and in _full protective clothing_ , Draco- are you listening?" she demanded, when he didn't pause in his writing.

"Yes," he groaned, waving at her to be quiet while he tried to finish his sentence. When he did, he looked up at her, and said, "You were saying something _obnoxious_ about safety and how much you love this flat more than me, or whatever."

She narrowed her eyes. "You want me to say it?" she guessed, with a resigned sigh.

Draco smiled, brilliantly. "Yes, please."

Hermione pulled on her robes for work, and crossed the room, standing before him where he sat on the recliner. "I love you, you annoying little man," she said, leaning down to press her lips to his. She wasn't _surprised_ when his hands closed around her head, but she squeaked a bit, anyway.

"I'm taller than _you_ ," he reminded her. "And I love you, too."

When he released her, she headed for the Floo. "I'm bringing you home the gear today. And before you start whining about it, which I know you will once you see it, _none_ of it is negotiable."

"You realize I'm a wizard, right? I know how to protect myself."

"Non-negotiable," she repeated, sending him a pointed glare as she tossed the Floo powder into the fire and disappeared through it.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Of course, he'd steadfastly refused to wear the 'ridiculous circus outfit' she'd brought home, finding the safety goggles to be particularly objectionable. And she'd issued an ultimatum: Put it on for the experiments, or _by golly_ she was going to artificially inseminate herself _after all_ and kick him out. He'd called her on her bluff immediately, and after a rousing argument, he'd finally agreed to wear the gear.

But _only_ for first-time experiments. When he had to re-perform them for others, he was not going to be putting on those awful trappings. She hadn't found much to object to, about that.

He'd started several potions over the next couple of days, three of them each day, six hours apart – presumably so he'd have more time to experiment. The potions bench wasn't big enough for such a mass production, and soon there were cauldrons all over the house – filling the coffee table and the kitchen table and all the counters.

When she found one balanced on the back of the toilet, she'd put her foot down and made him move them all to the Manor.

Maybe Pansy had a point.

But damned if she was going to admit it.

On Friday, Lucius appeared at her cubicle, straightening his sleeve. "I'm collecting you for lunch," he said, to her blank stare.

"I thought you were going to owl me your availability," she reminded him, frowning.

"I'm available currently. Our reservations are in seven minutes," he added, pulling out a pocket-watch and giving it a bored glance. Ignoring the way her lips thinned, he added, "That allows you the requisite ninety seconds to tidy your desk. I understand how important organization is to your thought process."

"Don't analyze me," she advised, testily, even as she quickly set about tidying up her notes and various proposals.

"Are you tense because your proposal is slotted to be reviewed today?" he inquired, when she'd finally stood and grabbed her robe and scarf. She'd long since realized that trying to fight with Lucius on petty matters like _how annoying it was_ when he suddenly interrupted her work served to only exhaust her. And he, like the obnoxious little _demon_ he was, only seemed to take energy from bothering her.

Twisting the scarf around her neck, she sighed. "I'm _anticipating_ the results," she admitted, begrudgingly. "And I hope you were right."

"I was."

The confidence in his reply had her sending him a sharp look, wondering what he knew that she didn't. She almost asked, but swallowed the question back down. If he deigned to answer, which was unlikely, the answer would almost certainly be infuriatingly opaque. "Where are we going?"

"L'Oranje Doux. It's newly opened-"

"Oh, I've been there," she said, brightening a bit. "They had a great duck."

She caught a fleeting look of disappointment in the very edges of his expression – the corners of his lips turning down slightly and a faint line appearing between his eyebrows – before he gifted her with a haughty look. "Their duck is adequate. You will try the tenderloin," he ordered, coolly. Then, unable to help himself, "Did Draco take you?"

Hermione squinted at him a bit, trying to discern if he was _jealous_ that he hadn't been the first one to open her eyes to the restaurant. "Pansy Parkinson, actually, on Monday."

The surprise he felt at that announcement seemed to clear the slight bitterness from his expression. "I was not aware you two were friendly."

"We're... not. I guess it was an olive branch, or something," she said, shrugging uncomfortably. "She said that since she and Draco were friends, we should try and get along. Which is nice of her, I suppose."

Lucius hummed noncommittally. "Or she may have realized when Draco failed to contact her that she was at risk of losing one of the few interpersonal connections she'd managed to forge," he said, almost in a low mutter. Hermione got the impression that Lucius was _not_ particularly fond of Pansy.

"So you think she's trying to get back in his good graces by buttering me up?"

He adjusted his cufflink as they headed outside. Even in the wind, his hair didn't move so much as a millimeter. He'd either charmed it or coated it in hairspray, and she wasn't sure which option was more hilarious. "I do not presume to know Ms. Parkinson's thoughts or motivations," he said, his lips pursing slightly. "But I know the Parkinsons well enough to have developed a healthy wariness of them."

"I thought the Malfoys and Parkinsons were friends," Hermione murmured.

"The _Blacks_ and the _Travers_ were friends," he corrected, promptly. "Mrs. Parkinson was from the Travers family before she married into the Parkinsons. She is a dear friend of my wife's," he added, and Hermione definitely did _not_ imagine the faint trace of saccharine venom in his tone. "And so Draco and Ms. Parkinson were raised within the same social circles."

Hermione's eyebrows lifted a bit. "So how _do_ the Malfoys feel about the Parkinsons?"

"The working relationship is amenable enough," he said, shortly.

She tilted her head a bit. "So, you hate them," she guessed. She wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that the Parkinsons had never committed to Voldemort's crusade. They'd always steered wisely clear of the entire thing, and if they offered assistance at all, it had been through very discreet channels.

Lucius looked at her for a long moment, considering his answer. Finally, he said, bluntly: "Yes."

Hermione laughed a bit. "But why Pansy?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting incredulously. "I mean, she's just-"

"A child? She is your age, Hermione," Lucius reminded her.

"But surely she hasn't _personally_ offended you," she argued. "You can't just pass on your vendettas from the parents to the children. That's not very fair."

He sniffed. "I have never done so."

"You _realize_ that one of my _best friends_ is a prime example of you doing _exactly_ that?" she scoffed, incredulously. "You have hated the Weasleys all your life, and at this point I'm not entirely sure you even have a good reason for doing so. And _don't_ say blood-traitor, because I'm married to your son, thank you _very_ much."

He narrowed his eyes a bit. "We're here," he announced, holding the door for her.

"I'm not going to let this go just because we arrived at a restaurant," she warned him, shrugging out of her robe with the help of the door attendant. When the man tried to offer to take Lucius' cane, as well, he sent the poor bloke a withering look that made the attendant pale and all but sprint for the coat closet. "Also, don't be mean," she whispered, chidingly.

"I was not being mean," he assured her, in a low tone as he followed the hostess to their table.

"You're mean as a bucket of snakes," she hissed back, and smiled brilliantly at the hostess when she stopped. "Thank you," she said, and it had almost become habit, now, to wait for Lucius to pull the chair back before she sat.

Once Lucius had settled, she picked up the menu and found the tenderloin he'd suggested, reading the sides with interest.

"You know, Pansy didn't seem that bad," she said, and didn't miss the flicker of resigned distaste cross Lucius' face. "A little snotty, maybe, but you're far snottier than _she_ is, and I very nearly _like_ you." His gaze flicked up to hers, betraying a small measure of surprise before he made a faint scoffing noise and turned it back to his menu.

"I am not snotty, I am well-bred," he corrected, firmly.

She couldn't help bursting into laughter, earning a bitter glare from her lunch companion. "Oh, my God. You're serious," she said, sobering. After a moment of looking at his face, all seriousness, she burst into _harder_ laughter.

He narrowed his eyes at his menu. "You are making a scene," he said, flatly.

"He said, snottily."

"Cease," he ordered, setting his menu aside as the waiter came to the table. He ordered for them both, and seemed terse enough that she didn't try to object. When the waiter left, he regarded Hermione with narrowed eyes, as if realizing that perhaps he had allowed their relationship to grow too comfortable.

She couched her chin in her hands. "It's too late," she informed him, primly. "I'm not scared of you."

"Pity."

Hermione grinned. "Okay, as much fun as it is watching you get all grouchy over my teasing, I actually did want to pick your brains about some other proposals I'm trying to assemble." He inclined his head and flicked his fingers in an elegant move she very much envied, and she continued: "So, we've been working with the trolls-"

0o0o0o0o0o0

The Wizengamot hadn't made a decision on her proposal by the time the work day had ended, and they'd resolved to reconvene about it come Monday. She _hated_ waiting. When she came home, Draco was still gone – probably at the Manor, playing with his potions. She noticed that the gear she'd brought home was still hanging over the arm of the couch and rolled her eyes, gathering it up in her arms before heading over.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"I just forgot," he insisted.

"My arse," she scoffed. He'd set up rows of potions benches in the playroom, and each one carried the weight of four bubbling cauldrons and a preparation area for chopping ingredients. In the back, the first potions he'd made were nearly ready, and he'd already made it clear that he intended to stay the night in the Manor to experiment.

Although she was curious, she sensed that he wanted to do his experimenting alone – and besides that, she didn't have any protective gear for herself. After giving explicit instructions to one of the elves to make sure that he ate his dinner, she headed home.

She wasn't prepared for how _lonely_ the flat would feel, without the air being full of his sarcastic remarks and caustic sense of humor.

Stubbornly, she ate dinner alone at her table. Being alone had never bothered her before, and damned if she was going to let it bother her _now_. After catching herself imagining his little remarks throughout the evening, Hermione finally groaned and grabbed a book to sink into bed with. She was _pathetic_.

After feeling her eyes grow heavy, she nestled under the blankets, expecting to feel relieved that she had the whole bed to herself, again.

Instead, she felt a little chilly. The moist breaths against the back of her neck usually bothered her, but now their _absence_ made her feel fidgety and restless. She missed having his arm wrapped around her middle. She missed his otherworldly body heat.

And she _really_ missed the version of herself that had existed only a year ago, that didn't know how to miss these things.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The playroom door opened. True to his word, Draco had put on the ridiculous gear Hermione had insisted upon, and jolted a bit when he realized he was about to have a _witness_ to his appearance. He tore the safety goggles off of his head, and stared when he realized it wasn't his mother or father. It was Hermione.

A glance at the clock confirmed that it was nearly one in the morning. "What are-" he began, frowning.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, with a sort of mulish bitterness that immediately filled him with a sense of warmth. A smirk slowly spread across his face, and her scowl intensified _adorably_. " _Not_ because of you," she snapped, folding her arms.

"So then what are you doing _here_?" he asked, smugly, and her nose wrinkled. "Want me to transfigure a couch?"

"And some blankets and a pillow," she muttered, and the eerie purple glow of the room did little to mask the flush that spread across her cheeks as she glanced away, in embarrassment. Since his wand was already out, he quickly turned the toy rocking horse into a couch. "Blankets?" He gestured to the door to his room, and she huffed her way in there.

Minutes later, she was curled up on the couch, his green blankets pulled up tightly around her face, all the way up to her nose. Her bushy hair sprouted from the top of her wrapped form like a fern.

Despite her complaints about not being able to sleep, she'd fallen asleep almost instantaneously, once she'd settled. She'd watched him work for about thirty or forty seconds before her eyelids had grown too heavy to keep open, anymore.

She slept like the dead, rousing only a little when she felt herself get lifted and moved about on the couch. She groaned in protest, whining, as he slid beneath her and re-settled the blankets around them both. She pressed her face into his chest, the unmistakable scent of crushed thyme filling her nose, and felt his fingertips glide along her jaw, feathersoft. Snuffling contentedly, she soon sunk back into unconsciousness, feeling his breaths start to even out beneath her as her last coherent thought slipped away.


	56. Nargles Everywhere

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Six: Nargles Everywhere**

 

…

 

“It's really very interesting,” Draco told Harry. His arm was spread across the back of Harry's couch, his fingers playing with Hermione's hair. “I've discovered that it _will_ dissolve plant matter rather peacefully – generally, they seem to shrink and pale, and I can't find evidence of them once I've drained the cauldron. Animal matter reacts rather violently, and I'd love to try a live mouse or something--”

 

“No,” Hermione said, promptly.

 

Draco pointed at her, rolling his eyes. “But, that. I did put a spider in it. It disintegrated.”

 

Hermione stared at him, her jaw dropping. “You _did_?” she demanded, a faint whine in her tone. That poor little creature.

 

“Good riddance,” Ron muttered, earning a glare from his ex.

 

“It's just an insect, Hermione,” Ginny huffed, amused. “Anyway. So what's the point of this potion, again? Besides making things disappear, that is.”

 

He shrugged. “I'm not too sure, actually. It was described in the book as the Alkahest, but obviously it isn't that. It doesn't dissolve any inorganic matter at all, as a matter of fact. It doesn't seem to do anything to minerals except heat them.”

 

“For those of us who _aren't_ alchemists... what on Earth is 'the Alkahest'?” Susan asked, squinting a bit. Ron looked a little relieved that someone else had asked.

 

“It's the universal solvent,” Hermione explained. “It's supposed to be something that dissolves whatever is put into it, separating the molecules – well, I suppose not the molecules, since wizards still don't even believe in those--”

 

“ _Bored_ ,” Ron announced, gesturing at her to hurry up.

 

She shot him a withering look. “ _Anyway_ , alchemists have been trying to discover it for centuries.”

 

Ginny gasped, her eyes going wide. When she had everyone's attention, she said, “Maybe the universal solvent is... _love_ ,” she breathed, spreading her hands in front of herself as though she were revealing a marquee.

 

Draco glared at her, his expression flat and stony. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

 

“What? That's a _great_ answer. You should have put that in your essay,” she argued. When Harry and Ron nodded, sagely, Draco made a frustrated noise.

 

“It's not love. Anyway--”

 

“Maybe it's friendship,” Ginny offered. When Draco glared at her, she continued, blithely, “Or understanding. Or tolerance. Or--”

 

“It's a _real thing_ ,” he snapped. “Not an _allegory_.”

 

“He would have almost certainly been denied entry if he'd put something so stupid in his essay,” Hermione said, disapprovingly. His hand shifted forward, cupping the back of her neck as a small gesture of thanks, and she shot him a smile. “It was a _very_ well-written essay. Of course, I wrote it.”

 

“You _helped_ ,” he corrected, scandalized.

 

Ron squinted. “Usually, saying 'Hermione helped' _means_ 'Hermione wrote it,'” he pointed out. “Then again, I think I remember you got decent marks.”

 

“I was at the top of my house!”

 

“Well, sure, but it's _Slytherin_ ,” Ginny pointed out, and all four Gryffindors nodded emphatically.

 

Draco glowered at her. “You know, I'm not entirely certain of why I even come here,” he muttered, rolling his eyes a bit.

 

“Well, I mean, saying you're at the top of Slytherin is like saying you're at the top of a dung heap,” Harry said, squinting a bit. “I mean. It's _better_ to be at the top of the dung heap than at the bottom, certainly. But I'm not sure it's something that you'd want to just announce proudly to anyone listening.”

 

“Didn't I come over here to be _fed_ , or something?” Draco demanded, glaring at Ginny, who was grinning so widely it looked like her face was going to split.

 

“Oh, and you thought you could just eat for free and not endure the heckling everyone else does, is that it?” she asked, impishly. “Come on, now, Malfoy, we've all had to put in our dues. And you're _years_ overdue on them. We've been enduring each other's pointed remarks since we were eleven. Everyone has to spend an equal amount of time as the target. For instance,” she said, pointing at her brother. “If you weren't here, we'd be harping on Ron.”

 

“Susan never gets harped on,” Draco pointed out.

 

“That's because she's adorable and even the thought of doing that fills us all with an intense amount of guilt,” Harry intoned, shooting Susan a narrow look.

 

The woman grinned brightly, looking both smug and utterly cheery.

 

Draco opened his mouth to say something insulting, but stalled a bit when he took in her bright eyes and smile. He pointed at her, _willing_ himself to say something cutting and terrible, and she just smiled and waited, looking almost _excited_ to hear what he'd come up with. It made him very uncomfortable.

 

After a beat of staring at her, he turned his finger on Ron. “Your freckles make you look like you got your face smashed into a mudpie.”

 

“Wh--” Ron protested, outraged. “You were doing _her_!”

 

“And your shirt doesn't fit,” Draco added, coolly.

 

Ron stared at his wife. “This is absolutely ridiculous,” he announced. “What, so she sits there and looks like a cherub and no one's going to tease her, is that it? It's all just going to come onto me. You're going to make me take the brunt of _two people's worth_ of insults and mockery. Is this your idea of justice?” he demanded, raising a fist and shaking it at them.

 

“It sounds like a fair trade to me,” Susan commented, happily.

 

“Oh, _big wonder_ that it does!”

 

Ginny hoisted herself out of Harry's lap, the recliner rocking forward with the sudden shift in weight. “Don't you yell at her. You can't yell at pregnant women. You'll make the babies come out funny,” she warned, crooking a finger at him as she padded towards the kitchen in her rainbow socks.

 

Ron scoffed. “Everyone knows that's not really true,” he said, loudly, as she disappeared into the kitchen. The second Ginny was out of sight, he leaned forward and pinned Hermione with a wide-eyed look of panic. “That was a lie, right?”

 

She nodded, and he turned to shout into the kitchen, “ _Everyone_ knows that's bollocks!”

 

“Stuff it, you tosser!” she yelled back.

 

Draco exhaled roughly. “Well, I think I have some insight as to why you insisted on doing all of your studying in the library,” he murmured. “Was your common room this ungodly loud?”

 

“Worse,” Hermione muttered, and Draco made a disgusted noise.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco bore her glare with a flat look of his own. “We can't just invite her over,” he said, and she could sense the effort it took for him to keep his voice even. “Pansy invited us for dinner, not us plus whoever we felt like dragging into her house. She'll have only set for us--”

 

“You say that like it's hard to put an extra place down,” Hermione argued. “Look, I _promised_ her that I'd spend time with her when she was next in town, and she's only here for the one day. She leaves tomorrow morning. If I don't see her today, I won't see her for the next _nine months_ , until her wedding to Goyle. Why can't you just owl ahead and let her know?”

 

He looked frustrated, and raked his fingers through his hair. “Because it doesn't _work_ like that. You don't just bring strangers into someone's _house_ \--”

 

“Luna is _not_ a stranger,” Hermione said, firmly. “Pansy knew her for seven years.”

 

Draco threw his hands up, infuriated that she was tossing his old argument back into his face. Hermione's eyes narrowed, glittering with victory as he shook his head and turned to storm towards the kitchen. She knew something petty would follow, like he'd make some tea and not offer her any.

 

“So that's settled?” she called, innocently, and smiled when he _slammed_ the teapot down on the stove top.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The next day, Luna showed up around noon, eager for her promised tour of Malfoy Manor. Hermione had specifically asked Narcissa, only dropping a hint that a friend of hers wanted to stop by for tea, and Narcissa was so delighted at the prospect of company that she'd agreed instantly. Draco would already be over there, fussing with his billions of identical potions.

 

Now it was simply a matter of convincing Luna that the Nargles were probably localized in Lucius Malfoy's study. Which she thought would be easy enough; Luna had said that they were attracted to negative energy, and Lucius' study had probably been steeped in it for _generations_.

 

“Hello, Narcissa,” Hermione greeted as she stepped out of the Floo, stepping forward to kiss her mother-in-law's cheek. “Weather's holding up nicely, isn't it?”

 

“It's a bit chilly, so I've charmed the garden to stay warm for tea. You've just missed lunch, I'm afraid.”

 

Hermione nodded. “Yeah, actually, Luna wanted a chance to look at a book in the library I told her about,” she lied. She was shocked at how smoothly it came out, but even as smooth as it was, she didn't miss the way Narcissa's eyes narrowed just a _fraction,_ her head tilting a bit as she sensed that _something_ wasn't adding up.

 

“Thank you for having me,” Luna said, looking around the ballroom with a fond smile. “This is a much better room than your dungeon. Next time, I should like to stay in here.”

 

The statuesque blonde's face went blank with shock at the bluntness of Luna's comment, and Hermione swallowed a sigh of relief when it seemed like that little exchange had chased off Narcissa's suspicions. “Ah... of course,” Narcissa murmured, a little uncertainly. “Well, I shall leave you to the library, then. Of course, this Manor is as much Hermione's as it is mine, so I trust her to provide an excellent tour. We'll have tea at two.”

 

Hermione smiled at her. “Thank you. We'll see you, then.”

 

As Narcissa left, Luna said, looking around the room thoughtfully: “On second thought, I should much prefer a bedroom if I'm to be imprisoned anywhere.”

 

The bushy-haired witch waited, silent, as Narcissa's clicking footsteps faded away. Then, she turned to Luna, grinning widely. “Ready for a Nargle hunt? Because I think I know _just_ the place. People have been thinking awful thoughts in that room for _years_.”

 

Luna put on her goggles. The lenses could be adjusted to a higher magnification with the little dials at her temples, and they were already up high, magnifying her eyes to monstrous proportions. She looked utterly serious as she pulled out a divining rod and tied a piece of silver string to it. At the bottom of the string hung a tiny little bell. “Wonderful,” she said, with a firm nod. “You can lead the way.”

 

Minutes later, Lucius was gaping at the bug-eyed blonde as she dragged the bell over the desk in his study. It started to pull a piece of parchment with it, and he jabbed a finger down on the corner to cement it in place.

 

“Ms. Granger,” he ground out, his countenance darkening. “May I ask about the nature of this intrusion?”

 

Hermione smiled. A few months ago, his return to her surname would have made her nervous. Now, she was fighting down the urge to laugh. “Nothing to worry about, _Mr. Malfoy_ ,” she said, sweetly. “Just your standard Nargle investigation. She shouldn't be more than a moment. Unless she finds one, that is.”

 

“A _what_ investigation?” he demanded. The bell tinkled, and Luna hummed in thought as she adjusted the magnification of her goggles, leaning into his bookcase to peer between the cracks in the books' spines.

 

“Nargles,” Luna answered, her voice a little breathless. “Oh, they're _everywhere_. Hermione, do you still have my equipment?”

 

Oh, dear God, this was like Christmas come early. “Of _course_ I do!” Hermione said, pulling a parade of strange items out of her little beaded bag. Lucius had given up trying to keep his expression neutral, and was just staring at her with open bewilderment as she set what looked like a pile of _pure garbage_ right onto his desk. “Which did you need?”

 

“The powder should help flush them out,” Luna decided.

 

Hermione reached for the little tin of it, and was narrowly beaten out by Lucius as he _slammed_ his hand on the tin. “You are _not_ putting powder on _anything_ in this room,” he snarled, sliding the tin towards himself.

 

Luna hummed in thought. “Alright, but it will take longer,” she said, frowning in thought. “Hermione, pass me the fuzzberries?”

 

She picked up the little glass tin of what looked like nettle bulbs, and offered it to Luna with an almost grim countenance, as though she were helping her friend investigate the scene of a murder. “The fuzzberries, Luna,” she said, not quite able to keep the glee out of her voice when Lucius's eyebrows swept together like two angry little caterpillars. “Lucius, you're joining us for tea, aren't you?” she asked, innocently.

  
Lucius' eyes were tracking Luna's movements as she carefully used tweezers to place the nettle bulbs at strategic locations on his bookshelves. “I am otherwise detained,” he grit out. His eyes narrowed as they settled on her, his fiery gaze promising a swift and merciless retribution.

 

“Oh, set it aside for half an hour,” Hermione insisted. “I'll make sure Narcissa sees to your presence. Luna can let you know what's come of her investigation.”

 

His eyes darkened a tint. Oh, yes, there was going to be hell to pay.

 

But for now, she was damn well going to enjoy the show.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

An hour and a half later, Luna had spread nettle bulbs all over the study. Lucius had stayed rigidly inside the entire time, rescuing what he insisted were _timeless_ pieces of artwork or other important knick-knacks or books from Luna's rather thorough hunt. She'd managed to get the powder and had spread it across his desk in the few minutes he'd left (either to go to the loo or to demand of his wife that she immediately remove both usurpers of his study from the premises, Hermione wasn't sure) in order to find evidence of Nargle footprints.

 

When he'd come back and seen the layer of white on his desk, a vein appeared in his forehead, and Hermione worried for a second that maybe she'd gone too far. On the _other_ hand, Ginny was going to pee her pants when she heard about this.

 

So, well. It was worth it.

 

“We'll have to come back after tea to see if they've made tracks,” Luna decided, packing up some of her equipment. She picked up a little paper origami flower from the pile she'd brought, and reached up to fasten it against Lucius' collar, either ignoring or oblivious to the dangerous way his lips thinned at her overly-familiar nature. “That should help,” she told him.

 

His voice was flat. “Help with _what_.”

 

“You have a high concentration of Haestian Matter in your neck,” she said, sincerely, and Hermione had to chew on the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting out laughing at the way his eyes widened incredulously. “That's what's causing your head pains.”

 

“I have a very good idea of what is causing my headache,” he managed to grit out, his teeth grinding together. “I'm also pretty sure I saw a band of _Nargles_ out in the hallway. Perhaps you should go check.”

 

Hermione's eyes widened as Luna gasped in delight and headed for the door. “Wait, I'll go with--” she said, desperately, trying to trot after her.

 

She pulled up short as his cane shot out, just barely stopping shy of it before she broke her nose on it. “Nonsense, Hermione,” he said, and the silk that had returned to his tone made the blood drain from her face a bit. He edged the cane forward until it touched her nose, and used it to help her stumble back, away from the door. “I believe I have some something to _discuss_.” Hermione watched with horror as his study door swung shut, and there was a _click_.

 

“Did that just lock? Did you just lock the door?” she demanded. “No fair locking the door!”

 

“As I will _not_ be seen chasing you, it was a necessary measure,” he assured her, smoothly. “Now that your friend has left my study in a rare and _deplorable_ state--”

 

“Nargles can cause bad moods and--” she began, and bumped into his desk. Her hands found the edge and came away coated in powder, which was probably on her bum, too. Damn it.

 

“You will not mention those nonsense creatures while she is out of this room,” Lucius said, in a low voice.

 

“It's important to flush them out,” she squeaked. Between the rush of adrenaline over this sudden confrontation and the past two hours of trying to keep from laughing, something in her broke and she slumped against the desk, _howling_ with mirth. “Your _face_ ,” she wheezed, when he glared at her. “Oh, my God, your face. Oh, my face. My face hurts,” she gasped, after one long minute of laughing. “My stomach. Oh, God. I think I've got a stitch in my side.”

 

Lucius ground his teeth together, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling as he wondered where it had all gone wrong. Just ten years ago, a harsh look from him could have made her wet her pants.

 

Now, he was reduced to _this_.

 

“I am _delighted_ ,” he said, his voice like the crack of a whip. “That you are _so_ enjoying yourself. I hope that your good mood will persist when you are cleaning all of this up.”

 

“You can't order me--” His eyes widened a bit with dark promise, and for a second she was reminded that this was a man who had killed other people, once. Clearing her throat a bit and sobering, she said, “Oh, alright.”

 

“Without your wand.”

 

“What is this, _detention_?” she huffed, indignant.

 

“If you'd like, you can forgo this punishment and wait for whatever I think of, next,” he said, in an almost saccharine tone. “Would that be more amenable to you?”

 

“You have _no_ sense of humor.”

 

“Is that meant to be an answer?” he asked, his eyebrow lifting delicately.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, petulant. She knew she was pouting a bit. “Fine, fine, I'll clean your stupid study,” she muttered. “It'll be sparkling. Just like new. Everyone that comes over will ask just how you tortured your elf to get that gleam back into the wood,” she added, sarcastically.

 

“I have never tortured an elf,” he said, and lifted his cane from her, finally allowing her to straighten up again. She tried to clap the powder from the seat of her jeans. “What a ridiculous idea.”

 

She might have been heartened by that comment if she knew that it wasn't empathy that spurred Lucius to say it, but rather the fact that he'd be as likely to 'torment' an elf as he was to try and torment a vase or a spoon. The idea was ridiculous not because torture was wrong, but because elves were somewhere above garden slugs and somewhere below house cats in the man's mind. Draco had told her once that the only ones Lucius had ever punished were the willful, disobedient ones.

 

Like Dobby.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. Despite Draco's assurance that Lucius had never lifted a hand against his elves in pure malice – no, it was always to 'correct,' and it happened rarely enough that Draco remembered the few times he'd witnessed it pretty clearly – she'd just been pretty harshly reminded of Lucius' character.

 

He was getting better, she thought, by the day. But at the heart of it, he was still a pretty massive git.

 

Well, all the more reason to annoy him with Nargle hunts. “Luna wants to make this a monthly experience,” she said, another nimble lie. She was getting worryingly good at them. “Said she could probably have the place Nargle-free in a matter of three.”

 

“You will not bring that girl back into this room,” he promised her, turning to head towards the door.

 

“Or else, what?” she asked, curious.

 

“ _Or else_ you will have the rare privilege of spending every single waking moment of your life wishing you had not,” he hissed, opening the door.

 

She passed him and reminded him: “You'll die eventually, you know.”

 

“I will find a way to ruin the rest of your life beyond mine, _believe_ me.”

 

Hermione snorted, collecting Luna in the hall. The blonde girl had left a series of dried lemon peels scattered against the walls, on the carpet, declaring that Nargles simply couldn't stand citrus oils. Lucius looked ready to explode, and so Hermione quickly shooed Luna down the hall and out to the garden for tea.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I'll have to send a Nargle-infestation kit,” Luna was telling Draco, seriously. Pansy was just staring at the girl as if she'd grown about four extra heads, her mouth lifting in a delicate sneer. “Since I won't be back for some time. I'll include instructions on how often to place the lemon peels. Once they're chased into a corner, it can be easy to collect them on some flypaper and put them outside.”

 

Draco, for his part, had managed to not say a single rude thing to Luna for all of tea and the rest of the afternoon, but now he was staring at her as if he were convinced that she might be putting on an elaborate prank. “I see,” he finally said.

 

“You do?” Pansy asked, archly, and he shot her a glare.

 

Hermione buried her face in her wine glass as she took a swig. She'd thought Justin Finch-Fletchley would be there, but Pansy had made it clear that they did not live together and never would. She intended to have very little contact with the man until she decided she was ready to get pregnant. Then, she was going to take every fertility potion and charm she could find and sleep with him for what she hoped was just the _one_ time.

 

Pansy's flat was, in a word, massive. If it weren't for the fact that it was simply one small part of the building it was housed in, it would have reminded Hermione rather sharply of an actual mansion. It had nearly a third of Malfoy Manor's square footage, and it was just as ostentatiously decorated.

 

She suspected that there were quite a few charms at work, since the flat was larger in area than the building itself.

 

She lived by herself, which Hermione felt was a little sad. Not the independence part (she could get well behind that) but the fact that she had such a massive home to exist in all on her lonesome. A family of four could have easily inhabited the space and barely seen each other. From what she understood, Pansy's parents had bought the place for her as a graduation gift from Hogwarts. Apparently the pureblood doctrine of living with one's parents until marriage didn't apply when so much open hatred of each other was involved.

 

“You should be careful,” Luna was telling Pansy. “I can see the signs of an early Nargle infestation. It's new, though, so if you spend a few minutes every day thinking positive thoughts in every room, you can easily chase them out.”

 

“Brilliant,” Pansy muttered, taking a deep gulp of her wine to try and hide her eyeroll. “I'll get right on that.”

 

“They're attracted to sarcasm, too,” the dreamy blonde added.

 

Draco huffed a soft, bitter laugh. “In that case, it's too late. She's done for. I'm sure she's been crawling with Nargles since second year.”

 

Luna frowned in thought. “No, I'd have seen them,” she said, firmly. “She was followed around by a puca in her fifth year. That was very interesting, because I'd never seen one, for myself, before.”

 

The dark-haired woman put her wine glass down, with a sharp _clink_. “Is _that_ why you followed me around for six straight weeks before the Christmas hols?”

 

“Oh, I remember that,” Draco said, his eyebrows shooting up. “We all thought she had a crush on you, Pans.” He started to smile. “We had that rhyme we made up for you. How did it go?”

 

“Don't,” she said, flatly.

 

He started to recite: “ _Pansy and Luna were snogging so hard_ \--”

 

Hermione's mouth fell open a bit as she choked back some laughter. Pansy's face twisted a bit in annoyance as she snapped, again, “ _Draco_.”

 

“ _\-- They snogged their way up the old churchyard_ \--”

 

Pansy reached into her sleeve and pulled out her wand, her eyes glittering with malicious intent.

 

“-- _Snogging turned to shagging and the priest, he said_ ,” Draco sing-songed, drawing out his own wand and holding it in _obvious_ threat. “ _Take that snogging to the marriage bed_!”

 

Silence reigned over the table. Pansy and Draco were both pointing their wands at each other, Pansy with a low growl and Draco with a smug smirk. After a few long, tense moments, Hermione said, “Wow. That is a _stupid_ rhyme.”

 

“Hey!” Draco defended. “I came up with most of it.”

 

“Oh, well, that explains it,” she said, but her tone was warm despite the insult.

 

Luna took a bite of her fish. “Yes,” she said, to Pansy.

 

Pansy just stared at her, her nose wrinkling a bit as she pushed her wand back into her sleeve. Across the table, Draco put his away, too, still smug. With a faint, frustrated huff, Pansy said, “Yes, _what_?”

 

“Yes, that was why I was following you,” Luna explained, patiently. “Pucas can be mischievous. Do you remember anything going awry during fifth year?”

 

Pansy's mouth fell open. “Yeah, you _stalked_ me for six weeks!”

 

“I meant 'awry' in the sense that it was troublesome,” the blonde clarified, and Pansy, for the first time in _many, many years_ , was well and truly speechless as she just sputtered uselessly.

 

Draco's eyes widened. “Oh, Merlin, I think you've finally broken her. That's a bloody miracle.”

 

Luna leaned across the table to peer into Pansy's face. The pretty little witch jolted back, glaring daggers at the Ravenclaw alum. Luna shook her head a bit, leaning back again. “The best way to avoid getting hurt is to already look hurt,” she said, sagely. “I think she's been doing it too long, though. She may have forgotten how to act like herself.”

 

Pansy stopped spluttering and just _looked_ at Luna, and for a moment Hermione saw a crack in her snobby expression, and there was a look of such _raw_ shock and hurt that she felt her _own_ heart clench in sympathy. Draco's spine straightened, his eyes darting between his friend and Luna, and he murmured, “Okay, that's enough of that.”

 

“All right,” Luna agreed, cheerfully enough, and Hermione blinked in surprise at how readily she gave in to Draco's command. “After the first Nargle kit, it'll be up to your father to keep a stock of lemon peels. You don't have a lemon tree in the garden, by any chance?”

 


	57. The Meaning of Sapience

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Meaning Of Sapience**

 

…

 

“I knew that had been a bad idea,” Draco muttered, when they finally Flooed home. The rest of dinner at Pansy's had been a little stilted, with the dark-haired girl unnaturally reserved. Hermione and Draco had wolfed the dessert down, desperate to escape. Luna had scarcely noticed a damn thing, or if she did, she hadn't betrayed as much.

 

Hermione was loathe to agree with her husband after fighting so hard to get Luna invited, but she grimaced and nodded. “What was that all about?” she asked, curiously.

 

He sighed, shaking his head. “Nevermind.”

 

The casual dismissal made her burn up with curiosity, but she knew better than to pry. Draco was quick to be his friends' worst critics, but he was also remarkably quick to defend them – and to keep their secrets. The most she ever got out of him about Pansy was that the girl had endured a rotten childhood and barely ever spoke to her parents, these days. He called her annoying and shallow and petty, but she understood that when Draco said these things, it was with the implicit understanding that he'd punch the lights out of anyone else who dared say it.

 

It reminded her of Ron, actually. “Well, I do feel bad,” she admitted, with a low sigh. “We'll have to make it up to her. What does she like?”

 

“Pretty much every single thing you hate. Fashion shows. Shopping.” He took in her wrinkling nose and laughed, helping her out of her robe. “Well, do you want to make it up to her, or not? What's a little fashion show if it mends broken bridges, hm?”

 

Her nose wrinkled further, and he insisted: “ _Hmmm_?”

 

“Oh, all right,” she snapped, irritably. He hung her robe up with an absent smile, and turned towards her, grabbing her shoulders and planting a kiss on her. “Mm,” she hummed, when he pulled back. “If I fall asleep out of boredom while I'm there, you'll have to snog me conscious again.”

 

Draco snorted, shrugging out of his own robe. “Yeah, right,” he said, eyes widening a bit. “If Pansy didn't kill you for falling asleep, she'd certainly kill me for not paying attention.”

 

“Are you saying you can't beat _Parkinson_ in a duel?”

 

He cut her a narrow look and turned to hang his robe up.

 

Hermione's eyebrows lifted as she circled around him, trying to catch his eye. “Draco. Have you and Pansy dueled, before?”

 

“ _No_ ,” he said, too quickly.

 

She gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. “Oh my-- _she won_?”

 

His eyes closed, and he made a low, growling noise in his throat as he turned away from her and stalked into the kitchen.

 

She followed him, a smile starting to stretch across her face. “What spell did you in?”

 

“For Merlin's sake, Granger, we were only in second year,” he said, tersely. “We barely knew any spells. And also Crabbe distracted me.” She started to laugh, and he grabbed some tea, shooting her a harried glare. “He _did_. I looked at him for just a second and she got me when my head was turned.”

 

“Like you wouldn't have done the same to Harry if he'd lost focus.”

 

“I didn't _lose focus_ ,” he groused, digging angrily around her little basket of bagged teas, trying to find the ginger one he liked.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, taking the basket from him and plucking the ginger-and-lemongrass tea free of it, passing it over with an amused smirk. “Of course, you didn't. So what do you call it, then, when someone distracts you and you look over at them when you're supposed to be dueling?”

 

“Get out of my kitchen.”

 

She cackled, throwing her head back a bit, and turned to head to the bedroom. “Make me one,” she ordered, over her shoulder.

 

“No! I hope you thirst to death!”

 

“Brat,” she called back, flopping into her bed to take off her shoes.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

After work on Tuesday, she Flooed directly to the Manor. “Lucius!” she shrieked. It echoed around the ballroom. “Lucius!”

 

A few elves peered around the doorways, their eyes wide with terror as she screamed.

 

Draco was the first to appear, running into view on the balcony level and hitting the bannister with a soft grunt. He looked around, wildly, certain that she was in some sort of danger. When it was apparent that she was alone, he just stared at her, spreading his arms wide as if to demand, _What the bloody hell_! She grinned when she saw that he was wearing his protective gear, his goggles pushed back up to his forehead and pushing his fringe up at odd angles.

 

Narcissa appeared in one of the main entrances, Lucius a few steps behind her. The blonde woman looked wide-eyed, her wand out as her eyes swept every corner of the room. “Hermione, dear, _what_ \--”

 

She started sprinting for Lucius, whose eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. She saw him put his free hand on the snakehead of his cane, _clearly_ ready to draw his wand, but he didn't get a chance to do so before she launched herself at him, her arms twining around his neck.

 

Eyes wide, he leaned back as Hermione lifted her feet from the ground, staring at his wife over her bushy head of hair. Both of his hands had flown wide when she landed, hands spread and frozen in the air.

 

“Miss _Granger_ ,” he hissed, finally coming to his senses enough to reach up and plant his hand on her forehead, literally prying her off of him. She landed on her feet, her face still aglow with excitement. “What in _Merlin's name_ has possessed you--”

 

“They passed it!” she screeched, making Narcissa flinch a bit at the ungodly timbre of her voice. She darted forward again to plant a loud kiss on Lucius' cheek. “Oh, you beautiful, _wonderful_ arsehole! You did it!”

 

She made to kiss the other cheek, and Lucius brought his hand up and planted it on her face, pushing her firmly away. “You have _sufficiently displayed your gratitude_ ,” he snapped.

 

Behind her, he saw Narcissa cross an arm in front of herself, planting her other elbow on the hand as she covered her smile. _Women_.

 

“If you kiss my father again, we're as good as divorced!” Draco shouted, from the balcony.

 

Hermione pulled back from Lucius' palm, and jumped up and down with open glee, pumping her fists in the air like a child that had just won her first Quidditch match. She backed up to beam at Draco, and pointed at him. “ _Stay there_. I'm coming up!”

 

“I'm experimenting on--”

 

“Sod your potions! I'm coming up!” she yelled, and bolted past Lucius and Narcissa, who all but dove out of the way. They could hear her thundering up the main staircase.

 

Lucius straightened his waistcoat fussily, his regal nose wrinkling. “She sounds like a herd of hippogriffs,” he muttered. A lock of hair had escaped the ribbon tying it back, and Narcissa was quite sure she wasn't imagining the way his ears had gone just a little pink. “And has about the same level of manners.”

 

She couldn't quite stifle the chuckle, and tried desperately to keep the amusement off her face when her husband shot her an utterly betrayed look. “It's been a while since I've seen you so flustered, Lucius. Sixth year, I think it was. I'd turned you down twice, already, and you'd decided that the third time was the charm... You know, that little stunt was the talk of the Slytherin common room _well_ after we both graduated.”

 

“Do _not_ bring that up again,” he muttered, grimly, turning to stalk back to his study. Her tinkling laugh followed him.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco fell back against the bed, gasping for air. “Remind me to get more of your proposals passed,” he wheezed, his face shining with exertion. She moved to clamber on top of him, and he groaned. “Oh, Merlin, Hermione-- I can't, I need a break. What is _wrong_ with you? Is passing proposals some sort of fetish of yours?”

 

She leaned forward to kiss him, nipping at his lips. “I'm just very excited,” she murmured, grinning.

 

“I can _see_ that. Ah! _Granger_!” he growled, pushing her hand away from his groin. “You need to _give it a minute_.”

 

Her nails scraped up his sides, flicking over his nipples, and he hissed. “I thought you said you had _endless_ stamina,” she teased, running her mouth down his throat, grazing her teeth against the pulse there. “Slytherin Sex God, I believe were your _exact_ words.”

 

“And you're the Gryffindor Sex _Demon_ ,” he groaned. He used a large chunk of his dwindling energy to turn them, a ghost of a smirk returning to his expression when she squeaked in surprise. “If I turned these tables on you, you'd be begging for mercy in no time,” he promised. He saw her open her mouth to argue, and hooked his hands around her thighs to shove her up the bed. She threw her hands up to catch the headboard, keeping herself from hitting it head-first.

 

Still trying to catch her breath a bit, she gasped, “Would not. I w--” Whatever she'd been about to say drowned in a moan as his mouth closed on her.

 

She was still feeling sensitive, and her moans quickly filled the room. She realized, as they ratcheted up to a rather loud volume, that neither of them had bothered trying to cast any silencing charms on Draco's room. She hoped the Manor was large enough that they'd gone unnoticed, anyway. After her next orgasm at the mercy of his mouth, though, he didn't stop, and soon she was whining and trying to kick away from him.

 

He raised his head, and she sighed in relief. It was short-lived, though, as his hand picked up where his mouth had dropped off.

 

Draco threw himself over her stomach, pinning her down as she moaned and shrieked, kicking her legs a bit to try and dislodge his hand. She pressed her thighs together, but it did nothing. “Draco,” she whined. “Draco, I can't-- please--” She sobbed as he tore another one from her, the release as much pleasure as it was agony.

 

He didn't stop for the next one, either, although at that point she was practically incoherent. “Please, please, please,” she gasped, and she nearly wept with relief when she felt his fingers slow and then stop.

 

Moving sluggishly, he got up from where he was pinning her and smiled at her. “Told you,” he said, flexing his hand a bit. It was _very_ sore after the last several minutes of working against her in such repetitive movements. She wasn't sure how many minutes had passed of him torturing her, but when he shifted to face her, she realized he was getting hard again. She groaned, and he grinned. “Hands and knees, love.”

 

“You're going to kill me,” she complained, but she rolled sluggishly over, pushing up onto her knees.

 

She let out a whimpering moan as he pushed into her, her legs trembling a bit with a desire to just collapse back into the mattress. “This wouldn't be a half-bad way to go,” he murmured, curling an arm around her stomach as he thrust into her, earning another shaky moan. She slumped forward onto her elbows, utterly unable to keep them straight, and he made a satisfied noise as he leaned down to press kisses along her spine. “Although it's not as much fun to do it alone,” he added, and his fingers dipped down to find her clit.

 

Hermione jolted, sobbing again. “No,” she moaned, her hands fisting into his pillows.

 

He used his other hand to drag her up, flush against his chest, his hips moving against hers in time with his fingers. “Yes. One more, for me,” he breathed into her ear. Her voice broke on the next moan, and he traced her ear with his tongue, making her whole body shudder. He began to move faster. “One more, Hermione. Just one more.”

 

She sobbed with pleasure, her back arching, and he felt her clench around him again – almost weakly, as though her body couldn't even be _bothered_ , anymore, and he groaned as emptied into her, his hips stuttering to a stop.

 

He sank onto his heels, letting her sink with him. He shifted his fingers against her again, curious, and was rewarded when she jolted violently, as if electrocuted.

 

Draco pressed a kiss into her shoulder, soothing, and let her come down.

 

“Prat,” was the first word she managed, and he laughed, low and weak. Gingerly, he moved them so they could fall back to the bed beside each other, basking in the afterglow.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she woke up, hours later, he was gone from the bed – but she could hear him shuffling around in the playroom. Pushing sleepily to her feet, she gathered up her clothes and put them on, wondering what time it was. When she headed into the playroom, he looked up at her, pulling the goggles off his head. “Two of my potions went off before I could even test them, because of you,” he huffed, although his irritation hardly seemed genuine.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Half one. You should go home and sleep,” he added. “I've got two more hours with these ones before they go off.”

 

“You'll come home after?” she sighed. She really missed sleeping beside him.

 

“It's only one more week of this,” he promised. “And I think I'm making some good notes.” He pulled her close to kiss her. “Do you still smell lilac and soil?”

 

Hermione inhaled, carefully. She'd almost gotten used to the smell. “Yes.”

 

He nodded, thoughtful. “Go home and go to bed,” he ordered. “I'll be there before you wake up.” He kissed her again, chaste and sweet, and turned her towards the door. She was too tired to argue, and Flooed home – and maybe it was the overenthusiastic sex, but she slept like the dead.

 

True to his word, he was beside her when she awoke, dead to the world and reeking of crushed thyme.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“He brought us by to smell his potion, you know,” Harry said, over lunch that Friday.

 

Hermione had been riding on a wave of joy after her proposal had passed, and had been in high spirits all week. She wasn't entirely happy with the proposal in its entirety, but she had to admit that Lucius had a point; small steps led to big changes.

 

She swallowed what she'd been chewing and raised her eyebrows. “What'd you smell?” she asked, curiously.

 

“Snow. It took me a while to place it, but it was definitely snow,” he said, with a shrug. “Ginny smelled grass and leather. Ron smelled bacon and eggs, or I guess he just smelled _breakfast_ , and I'm sure that means something significant.” At that, Harry laughed. “And Susan smelled smoke.”

 

“What do you suppose it's supposed to mean?”

 

“I have not the foggiest,” Harry scoffed.

 

“Does snow mean anything to you?”

 

He sobered as he thought, his mind churning through the possibilities. Finally, though, he just shook his head. “I mean, not particularly. I _like_ snow. Ron likes breakfast. Ginny likes... grass, I suppose. Maybe the potion just makes us smell things we like.”

 

“I don't particularly _like_ dirt. Or lilac,” she pointed out. Not that she hated lilac, by any means, but it wasn't like she was rushing out to buy lilac shampoo.

 

Harry sighed. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he finally said. “I've no idea.”

 

Hermione frowned. As much as she wanted to leave this project to Draco, she hated the _not knowing_ , and she felt an itching need to try and research the subject. Surely Hogwarts had something in the library on the matter. “Hm.”

 

“Enough about that. Let's talk about your _next_ world-changing law,” Harry teased.

 

She brightened, happy to return to her new favorite subject. “Actually, I've been working on something for house elves...” she began, grinning. Things really seemed to be looking up, lately. She felt nearly unstoppable.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“This will never pass,” Lucius predicted. He'd been quite cold since she'd hugged him over the werewolf rights proposal, and had agreed to sit down to lunch if she promised _not_ to cause a scene. However, as he'd looked over her newest project – demanding pay and freedom for house elves – the coolness had quickly evaporated into disbelief.

 

She frowned. “Why not?” she challenged. “House elves deserve freedom – and a salary for their work.”

 

“They're _elves_ ,” he argued, and she dearly wanted to slap his face in that moment. Was this the same man who had conceded the inalienable rights of werewolves with barely a flutter of his eyelids? How could that man be the same person as this one – someone who didn't even consider elves to be actual _people_?

 

“And they have thoughts and feelings,” she snapped, narrowing her eyes a bit. “They're sapient. They deserve their basic rights.”

 

“Sapient,” he echoed, already looking exhausted by the conversation.

 

“It means they have self-awareness, like humans. Any creature that's sapient deserves basic human rights,” she said, flatly, her lips thinning a bit. “They're not animals. They can express themselves, and when they do, they're expressing complex thoughts and emotions. Treating them like slaves is wrong.”

 

Looking bored, Lucius flaked off a piece of salmon with his fork. “They are not treated like slaves,” he said, with just the barest hint of scorn. “They are treated like elves.”

 

Fury enveloped her face. “That's slavery. Forcing someone to cook and clean for you, for free, is _slavery_. Punishing them for failing to do your bidding is _slavery_. Owning a person is _slavery_ , Lucius, and I think we both know I don't need to explain the concept to you.”

 

“They're not being forced to do anything. This is as its always been, and with few exceptions, they do not dream of more.”

 

“And _how_ do you know that?” she demanded, hotly. “Had a lot of heart-to-hearts with your house elves, have you? Pried into their thoughts and seen their lack of dreams yourself?”

 

He popped the salmon into his mouth with his fork and fixed her with a resigned glare. “Everyone knows that.”

 

“That's-- I can't believe you'd even use that as a reason,” she seethed, disgusted. “That's awful, even for you. Use your brain and challenge what you've been taught, for God's sake.”

 

“And how would you propose I go about that? Should I try and initiate a _conversation_?” he scoffed.

 

“Yes.” The look on his face – pure indignant horror – was positively priceless. She barreled on, refusing to let this go. Not unless she saw some faint bit of evidence that she'd changed his mind, even a _little_. “Talk to one. Pick any one. Ask them how their day is going. Ask them what they'd like to do for the rest of the day.” Lucius rolled his eyes, setting his fork down to pick up his glass of wine. The very _thought_ of trying to have a human conversation with one of those ridiculous creatures made him wish he'd brought a flask of Firewhiskey to this lunch date. “Just the once. Try, for real, and see if you can't get an answer.”

 

“And if they respond, what do I do, then?” he wondered, mockingly.

 

She hesitated. “I suppose that's up to you.”

 

He issued a nasal sigh, utterly regal in nature. “I agree to attempt a conversation if you agree to make this one about something else,” he finally said.

 

She smiled, and the corners of his lips tugged down in a frown. He didn't like that – her looking like she was _proud_ of him. Because he knew that she was going to be disappointed. “Alright,” she agreed, warmth returning to her tone. “So when's the next big party? It's been a while since Narcissa threw one.”

 

“She is planning her first fundraising effort for the organization she and the Potter boy are trying to put together, to assist Muggles in warzones,” he said, his tone utterly detached.

 

Hermione nodded. “Harry told me that was going well. Are you going to be involved?”

 

“I will be providing donations, as I typically do for her little side projects,” he said, his lips lightly pursed. While he saw no sense in trying to stop Narcissa from pursuing a healthy career in philanthropy, that hardly meant that he wanted to be _involved_.

 

Frowning, Hermione poked at her swordfish. “I think I'd class this a little higher than just a 'side project.'”

 

“I do not see why we should expend efforts on saving Muggles from themselves,” he admitted. “If they want to extinguish themselves, who are we to step in and try to stop it?”

 

“People who can,” she said, frowning. “There are innocent people caught up in all that. You don't want to help them just a _little_?” At his quelling look, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. Forgot that I was talking to a big bad Death Eater who eats feelings for breakfast. _My_ apologies.”

 

“Don't be rude,” he chided her, in a low drawl. “These efforts will surely end up breaking one of several laws regarding magical secrecy, and the project will invariably be shut down.”

 

“Those laws are silly and _they_ should be shut down.”

 

He regarded her, picking up his fork again and spearing a green bean on it. “And I suppose you consider yourself the one to upend said laws?”

 

She paused, her mind stuttering a bit. Because no, she hadn't. She'd always thought that _someone_ should, but she'd never considered it as something that would fall onto her plate, really. Mostly because, on some deep level, she wasn't sure if such laws _could_ be overturned. There were a lot of solidly logical reasons to keep Muggles in the dark on magic; she didn't agree with them, but they were not purely borne of fear-mongering. It wasn't anything to do with Muggle nature, she knew, but simply human nature. Humans were always trying to conquer that which they didn't understand.

 

Realizing that Lucius was watching her, his gaze hooded and snake-like, she stiffened, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. “If no one else is going to see reason, I suppose I ought to.”

 

He canted his head. “Then we should be considering your next move,” he said, thoughtfully, and she about fell off her chair. “You cannot waste much more of your career in Magical Creatures. It is time for you to determine your path forward.”

 

“Forward,” she repeated, numbly. She'd spent a few years in Magical Creatures, and she'd always thought that she'd done fairly well in it.

 

But, in the end, there was so much _more_ she wanted to do, and she wasn't sure she was ready to leave it, just yet. “Forward to where, exactly?” she asked, frowning at him.

 

“Do you have no upward ambitions?” he asked. “Are you truly content in your current position?”

 

“No, of course not. But I've only been there for three years--”

 

“Which is long enough,” he cut in, firmly. “Bureaucratic careers either move quickly or not at all. You should determine which sort yours will be before it is decided for you. Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

 

“Minister for Magic,” she said, promptly, and was rewarded with an elegant lift of his eyebrows.

 

A small smile touched his lips, and he raised his glass. “I see you there in ten,” he said, and she felt her face heat. It was so uncommon for Lucius Malfoy to give out compliments that this one took the breath out of her lungs. Dumbly, she picked up her own glass, and clinked it against his. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been a long-standing jumping board for Ministers for Magic. They come from other places, of course, but the majority come from there. You should consider it as your next department.”

 

She took a sip of her wine at the same time he did, and was glad of it, because suddenly her mouth felt a little dry. Did he _really_ believe she could be Minister for Magic one day?

 

No, not one day, in _ten years_? In her _thirties_?

 

It seemed impossible.

 

Inhaling carefully, she watched him over the rim of her glass. She wasn't stupid; she knew that if he was grooming her to end up in that position, it was for his own benefit. And furthermore, he knew that she wasn't stupid, and when he caught her look, he just canted an eyebrow in a faint taunt. Because he also knew that the likelihood of her achieving that goal was much less without his help.

 

And hell, she knew it, too. “What do you get out of this?” she finally asked, bluntly.

 

“My daughter-in-law will be Minister for Magic,” he pointed out, in a dry tone. “What _don't_ I get out of this?”

 

“I won't push people around for you, you know,” she warned him.

 

He lifted his hand and flicked his fingers dismissively. “The prestige of sharing your family name will afford me what I want.”

 

 _Ah_.

 

In ten years, she'd still be Hermione Malfoy. Finally, a Malfoy would be Minister for Magic. She was pretty sure that was a long-standing dream of the family, although as far as she knew, no Malfoy had ever tried to make an honest go for the position. “Why hasn't anyone in your family tried to be Minister, before?”

 

“That is a question for ghosts, Hermione,” he dismissed her, smoothly.

 

“Fine. Why didn't _you_?”

 

“I would not have been elected.” The confidence with which he asserted that fact surprised her; she'd always thought that he'd believed otherwise, to be honest.

 

She took another sip of her wine. “So you didn't even try.”

 

“Correct.”

 

Interesting. But with Hermione, he seemed to believe that the Malfoys finally had a shot at taking the title. That would be a feather in their cap, she supposed. She wondered if, generations from now, some of her and Draco's descendents would quietly re-write history to depict her as pureblooded.

 

No, she decided.

 

Because she wasn't going to let anyone ascribe importance to something so asinine ever again. “Well. Department of Magical Law Enforcement, huh?” she asked, mulling over the various positions there. Meeting his gaze again, she suddenly laughed. Life really was strange. “To bargains with the devil,” she said, raising her glass in a mocking toast before taking a sip.

 

“I believe I told you to stop being rude,” he reminded her, but there was the faintest twinge at the corners of his lips.

 


	58. Learning To Fly

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: Learning To Fly**

 

…

 

“Are you ever going to let me look at those?” she asked, plaintively, as she put the kettle on. Draco was at the kitchen table, poring over the sheaves and sheaves of notes he'd penned during his time experimenting on his potion. He'd been less than generous in sharing them, however. “Maybe I could help.”

 

“Maybe I don't want you to help,” he returned, smoothly.

 

She rolled her eyes, her jaw clenching a bit as she choked down a frustrated noise. “Harry and Ron loved when I helped,” she muttered, digging around in the tea basket for some Earl Grey.

 

“Harry and Ron barely have two thoughts to rub together between them,” Draco scoffed, crossing out one of his notes and writing above it. “Make me one.”

 

“Make it yourself.”

 

A slight smile touched the corners of his lips at the abject grumpiness in her tone, and he glanced up at her. She was scowling at the tea basket, her face stormy as she picked through what remained. He knew that there was no Earl Grey in there; she'd had the last one the night before. He'd forgotten to mention to her that she should buy more. “Some wife you are.”

 

Her scowl intensified as she raised her gaze to glare at him. She picked out some chamomile and shoved the tea basket into the cabinet, pointedly doing so without grabbing a second one.

 

Stifling a chuckle, he looked back down at his notes. “I'll let you look at them when I've tidied them up,” he promised. “On one condition.”

 

She turned, perking cautiously. “What?”

 

“Keep your swotty thoughts to _yourself_ ,” he said, firmly, lifting his eyes again to narrow them at her. She frowned, and he insisted, “I'm serious. If you can't promise that, I won't let you read any of them.”

 

Her nose wrinkled. “But talking it through would be the most fun part!” she whined.

 

“Except you wouldn't be talking it through, you'd be _helping_ , and I don't need your help,” Draco enunciated, with an insincere smile.

 

Hermione groaned. “Okay, what if I just talked to you about it, then? Not helping, just talking. I think better when I talk,” she added. “Don't you think a little better when you talk?”

 

“No,” he huffed, incredulous.

 

“ _Please_.”

 

He sighed, deeply. “Make me tea,” he ordered, gruffly, to cover up the fact that he knew he'd lost this argument the second she brought the P-word out. “And I suppose we can talk about it as long as you're not too _annoying_. But if I tell you to shut up, you have to do it. Agree.”

 

Hermione opened the cabinet, smiling. “Okay. Deal.” She fished out a teabag for him.

 

Grumbling, Draco turned back to his notes. He couldn't even have one little project to _himself_ for so much as a month before the world's biggest swot was trying to nose into it. He supposed this was what he deserved for falling in love with the insufferable little know-it-all. This grave had been dug, and by none other than himself. How was _that_ for irony?

 

Appeased, she said nothing else on the matter, merely set his tea beside him and headed into the living room to grab one of her books.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Mid-November, she was saying goodbye to her parents as they departed for the airport in a taxi (after Draco kept asking if the car was being left behind at their last dinner, here, they decided to do so, although she was reasonably sure that had not been in the initial plan). “Have fun,” she called, waving as they closed the door and pulled away. She turned back to the front door, where Draco was stuck trying to keep Crookshanks from running outside.

 

“Your cat is an absolute rubbish heap,” he muttered, using his foot to divert Crookshanks from the crack in the door _again_.

 

Hermione slipped inside, scooping her familiar up and carrying him into the living room. “You be nice to Crookshanks,” she ordered, coolly. “Or I won't show you how to use the internet.”

 

She could hear him grumbling as he closed the door. She set the cat down on the recliner and scooped the remote up from the coffee table, shooting her husband a smile as he slouched into the room. “Remember when I told you about television?” she asked, and his eyes cut towards the large, flat screen hanging above the fireplace as he nodded. “Come here.”

 

The television flicked on, and the sound of a news anchor speaking rapid-fire filled the room in record time, making Draco jump a bit. He stared intently at the screen as he slowly lowered himself to the couch.

 

Hermione joined him, kicking off her shoes to curl her legs up beneath her. “Alright. So, if you hit this button, it brings you to the Guide. So now you can see all the other shows that are playing, right now.” A little blue frame squished the news anchor into a smaller space, and she scrolled through the options idly. “And if you click 'info,' it tells you more about the show that's highlighted. So, um, if we click info on this one...” She did so. “This show is called 'Friends.' So, uh, the show is about six friends living in New York City. And this episode is about... Oh, Ross has a work-related party to attend and no one's ready to go.”

 

She glanced at Draco, who was just staring at the screen in open confusion. Experimentally, she clicked on the episode, watching his reaction as Joey and Chandler fought over a chair.

 

After a quiet minute, he asked, “Are these people real?”

 

Hermione hesitated. “The actors are,” she said, blinking. “But the characters aren't. This one is like a play,” she added, and he nodded, leaning back into the couch and propping his ankle onto his knee. He frowned more often than not, utterly confused by the show and not really understanding the parts that made her laugh or giggle.

 

“She's pretty,” was his only comment, in regards to Rachel, and Hermione rolled her eyes and abruptly changed the channel. When she glanced at him again, he was smiling smugly, though his eyes were still glued to the screen.

 

“This is the news,” she explained. “You watch it to see what's happening in the real world.”

 

“She's pretty,” he said, of the anchorwoman.

 

Hermione turned the television off, her expression flat, and he laughed. “ _Anyway_ , you get the gist,” she muttered, shooting him a sour look.

 

He reached for her, and she became dead weight as he tried to pull her closer. “Don't hold grudges,” he commanded, and pulled harder. She willed herself to become lead as she sagged against the couch, resisting his every attempt to get her properly in his lap or at his side. It took several minutes of struggling, but _finally_ she was pulled up against him, still pouting. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, humming contentedly.

 

“You're a git,” she huffed.

 

The chilly tip of his nose found her ear, and she made an aggravated noise as she tilted her head away. But he hugged her tighter. “You're much, much prettier than either of them,” he assured her, and she could practically _taste_ the smirk on his face, it was so evident. “Better?”

 

She scowled. “No.”

 

His lips feathered kisses against her jawline. “And I love you. Better?”

 

“ _Slightly_.”

 

Draco chuckled, smoothing her mess of curls down a bit as he held her against him. After a few more minutes of cuddling, he said, “And what's that, next to the television?” He felt her shift to look, and when she didn't respond immediately, he clarified: “The big silver and black box.”

 

“It's a stereo,” she said. “You play music on it. It's like the one in my flat, but bigger and better.”

 

He grunted a bit, unimpressed. “That you play your queens on.”

 

“ _Queen_ is a brilliant band,” she defended. “And very highly regarded by pretty much everyone. They're classic!” He made another unimpressed noise, and she huffed, straightening a bit. “My dad loves Queen. And Pink Floyd. That's another rock band.” She started to stand, and he grabbed her wrist.

 

“Please don't feel the need to assault my ears with it.”

 

She pulled her wrist free and strode to the stereo, stubborn, and flicked through her father's CD collection. Draco groaned. “Hermione.”

 

“Wait. I just thought of a song that reminds me of you,” she said, excitedly. “I came over to visit my parents before we got married and my Dad played it, and I remember thinking, 'It's like this song is written for Draco.' I think you'll like it.”

 

He doubted that _very_ much, but the narcissistic side of him was avidly curious about the contents of a song that made her think of him, so he just sighed and let her hunt.

 

“Oh! Here, it is,” she said, pulling a thin square out and then pulling out the little metallic circle that he dimly recognized as being similar to her DVDs. She pressed a button on the stereo, and said, “Now, you have to listen to the words, because it's the lyrics that make me think of you. Okay?”

 

“Yes, I understand how _songs_ work.”

 

“Could've fooled me,” she said, under her breath, and he shot her a narrow look.

 

“Pardon me?” he queried, with steely politeness.

 

Hermione smiled at him as she flicked through the songs, all innocence. “Nothing!” He cast her an unamused, moody look, and she chuckled a bit as she found the song. “Okay, this is Pink Floyd. The song is 'Learning To Fly.'” She glanced at him, gratified to see that he at least looked _marginally_ interested. “Remember planes? The man who wrote this was a pilot, and some people believe he wrote it about flying.”

 

He fell silent, straining to pick out the words as they started. The dreamy quality of the song made it hard to pick out every one, but he got the idea. There was a whole middle section of the song that just sounded like actual noise, but the parts that sounded like singing weren't _the worst_ to listen to.

 

He almost sort of liked it.

 

“Play it again,” he said, when the song ended. “I couldn't understand all of it.”

 

She smiled, and set it to play again before heading out of the room. When she came back, mid-song, she had a piece of paper in her hands – not like the parchment he was used to. This paper was clean and white with straight edges, and he recognized it vaguely as more popular among Muggles. “I printed the lyrics out,” she explained, when he took the paper.

 

The song ended, and she let it play again, and this time Draco read along, mouthing some of the words as the singer sang them. This time, when the song ended, he asked, “What's this part?”

 

Her eyes flicked over the part he indicated, and she shrugged. “That's just cockpit noises. The flight deck of the plane,” she clarified, immediately. “Where the pilots sit when they're flying it. It's just standard stuff they say when they're flying, I suppose.”

 

“Why is it in the song?”

 

Hermione laughed, and shrugged. “I don't know. Ambiance, I guess. Pink Floyd kind of does what they want.”

 

He considered the lyrics for a moment, and then opened his mouth with yet another question. Ten questions or so later, Hermione was beginning to wonder if she was going to live to regret sharing this song with him. He wanted to know everything – who was this Pink Floyd? Was his name Floyd? What did this phrase mean? What instruments did they use to make those sounds?

 

She tried to be patient, wanting to encourage his interest in Muggle music, since this was probably the _first time_ in _all_ of their time together that he'd shown even a glimmer of it. It had taken an appeal to his vanity to spark the interest, and she wasn't about to waste that opportunity.

 

Finally, he ran out of questions, and stared at the lyrics on the page for a long moment. “Is it _just_ about flying?” he asked, quietly.

 

Hermione was silent a beat, thinking it over. “It depends,” she said, slowly. “I don't think so, no. That's kind of the beauty of music, you see. It can be about whatever you need it to be. It can be about just one thing, or... lots of things. It's about making you feel, and generally the artist doesn't care how you choose to interpret the songs as long as it makes you feel something.”

 

He nodded, slowly. Then, he raised the paper. “Where did you get these?”

 

She grinned, holding out a hand and pulling him up from the couch. “Oh, Draco. I'm about to show you something and you have to promise not to lose your mind over how amazing and awe-inspiring it is. I got these lyrics from the _internet_.” Keeping his hand in hers, she dragged him into the little room past the den, where the Grangers kept their 'office,' so-called because it happened to have a desk with a computer on it inside.

 

She pulled a chair up next to the main one, and sat down. She inhaled deeply and began to explain what a computer was.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Watching him type was excruciating.

 

She didn't expect him to be a fast typist by _any_ means, but this was ridiculous even by 85-year old standards. He would frown at the keyboard, finding the letter, and then poke the key. Then he'd look up at the screen to confirm that the letter had appeared. Then it was back to frowning at the keyboard.

 

“Draco, are you sure you don't want me to just--” she began, in a whining tone.

 

“I can _do it_ ,” he snapped, his shoulders hunching a bit as he huddled over the keyboard as if to protect it from her questing fingers.

 

He was five letters in before she realized what he was typing into Google.

 

S-K-Y-D-I-

 

“No,” she said, trying to wrestle the keyboard from him. He made an outraged noise and grabbed it, shoulder-checking her out of the way. She snarled a bit as she renewed her efforts, her voice growing shrill. “Draco, no! I _forbid_ you to look that up!”

 

He got the V in between struggles, his expression mulish.

 

She gave up with a groan, throwing her hands up in the air and slumping back in her chair. She glared at him as he stubbornly pecked out the remaining three letters and grabbed the mouse, taking a _very_ long time to figure out how to navigate it to the 'search' button and click it. Google popped up images and links of nearby skydiving places (thanks, Google, you're the _best_ , said someone else besides Hermione), as well as plenty of hits that explained skydiving and why it was fantastic.

 

He found a video near the top of the page and clicked on it, peering closely at the screen as it buffered and then began to play. Enraptured, he watched a man leap from a plane, pulling a thumbs up to the camera as he laughed and whooped.

 

“We should do this,” Draco said.

 

“ _You_ can do whatever stupid nonsense you want. I'm not jumping out of a plane,” she said, bluntly.

 

“It looks safe. He has a big blanket to catch himself with.” He tapped the screen of the computer to indicate the humongous parachute that had unfolded from the skydiver's backpack.

 

“That's a parachute and _no_.”

 

“But Hermi--”

 

She cut him off, in a polite, cool tone. “Draco, I'm _never_ skydiving, with you, or with anyone else. Ever. There is nothing you could do to get me to jump out of a plane. You could throw my own _firstborn child_ out of the damn thing, and I would _not_ leap after him. _Do you understand_?”

 

He squinted at her. “I don't believe that for a second.”

 

“ _No_!”

 

He sighed, gustily, looking back up as the video ended. “I'll ask someone else to go with me,” he murmured, already trying to think of someone who could possibly be interested in defying death itself.

 

“Good idea. I wish you and whoever that is the best time in the world.” He clicked on another suggested video for skydiving, and she groaned a bit and stood, already bored. The videos also made her feel very fidgety. “I'm going to get dinner started, and we can watch a film. My parents have a good collection.”

 

“Alright,” he said, absently, his eyes glued to the screen.

 

She pressed a kiss to his temple and meandered back out into the kitchen, leaving him to his obsession.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Hermione!” he yelled, from the office.

 

She was in the middle of pouring the pasta out into the colander, steam billowing up and clouding her face. She cringed back from it and called back, “What?”

 

“There's a _film_ of people _shagging_!”

 

She nearly dropped her pot. “Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered, hastily throwing the now-empty thing on the stove, where it clanged loudly, the echo chasing her into the hallway. “ _Do not_ watch those!” she ordered, going so fast that she almost skidded right past the office door.

 

It was too late. She could tell from the noises – the overdone moans of a lousy actress. “What are these?” he asked, looking at her with wide, almost terrified eyes.

 

“That's _porn_ , and close it before you give the computer a virus,” she said, grumpily. When he just stared at the screen, she sighed and moved forward, clicking the little x on the window just as the woman's eyes rolled back in her head, her glossy lips opening wide to scream in ecstasy. “For God's sake, Draco, you were left unattended with the internet for _twenty minutes_ , not even knowing how it worked, and you found porn. How did you even _manage_ to do that?” she demanded, incredulously.

 

“What's 'porn'?”

 

“It's-- it's what you just saw,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Pornography. It's pictures, or videos, of people engaging in sexual acts.”

 

“Why are they on the internet?” he asked, his eyes still wide as saucers.

 

She grimaced. “Because people like to... watch them,” she said, uncomfortably. “And masturbate, usually. It's a way for people to, er, get satisfied when having sex isn't an option.”

 

His eyebrows lifted, and he regarded the computer with a sly smile.

 

“Oh, my God,” she muttered. “Come on, it's time to eat.” She dragged him out of the chair and towed him into the kitchen, where she finished up the pasta.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They watched _The Princess Bride_ , which Draco understood well enough to find funny. Afterwards, he asked about 'porn' again, and she sighed and said that she would find more videos for him, but _she_ had to find them. The last thing she needed was Draco clicking a virus onto her poor mother's computer. As she sat down in front of the computer, she asked, “Okay, so what kind do you want to see?”

 

“Kind?”

 

Oh, dear God in heaven, help her. Pink suffused her cheeks. “They come in different genres,” she said, although perhaps 'genre' wasn't the appropriate word. “People like different things, so they make them to cater to... different things. So, I suppose I should ask... if there's a fantasy scenario.”

 

His silvery-blue eyes flicked to hers, a slow smirk spreading across his face at her blush. “That's a forward question.”

 

“Draco, I don't _have_ to show you anything,” she snipped, pointedly.

 

He chuckled warmly, and said, “I was serious about wanting to tie you up.” He watched her face as he said it, the nervous way her eyes flicked to him before dragging back to the computer screen. He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I want to immobilize you so that you can't kick me when I make you come again and again and again--”

 

“I _get it_ ,” she squeaked, her face going bright red. She focused on typing. “So that's... bondage and...” She cleared her throat a bit. “Forced orgasm.”

 

“It has a name?” he asked, _delighted_ by this news.

 

She cleared her throat again, deeply uncomfortable with the actual wealth of knowledge she had concerning the subject. But it wasn't _her_ fault that she was curious and tended to read! She had nothing to be embarrassed about. “Yes, it's kind of a... It's part of orgasm control, which is a particular sort of kink,” she muttered, avoiding looking at him.

 

“What is the rest of 'orgasm control'?” he wondered, and she groaned a bit. “I'm trying to _learn_ , Hermione!”

 

“You're trying to embarrass me,” she accused. When he flattened a hand to his heart, his expression indignant, she just rolled her eyes. “Okay, _fine_. So the other parts are... like, with-holding orgasms. Um, you can control the _quality_ of the orgasm, there's this thing called 'ruined orgasms,' and it's all about how you stop stimulating the person the second they begin to orgasm, which, you know, ruins it. And then there's, um, edging.”

 

“Edging.”

 

He was enjoying this _far_ too much. She shot him a glare and said, “You bring them to _almost_ orgasm and you stop before they can get there. To the edge. And you keep them on the edge as long as you can. Edging.”

 

Draco planted an elbow on the desk, cushioning his chin in his palm as he regarded her. “You sure know a lot about this subject.”

 

“I _read_ ,” she defended, waspishly. “Look, I _found you a video_. Watch it.”

 

He smirked, but conceded, leaning back to watch the video. The woman in it was tied up in the sort of yoga-style pose Hermione knew she'd never be able to achieve comfortably. After the first orgasm, the rest of the video was her squealing and whining into her gag as she was forced through two more. Hermione fidgeted, folding her arms in front of her stomach.

 

She had nothing against porn. She could even enjoy it, were she in the proper mood. Unfortunately, sitting next to her Pureblood husband, who was staring at the video with wide eyes, wasn't exactly the 'proper mood.'

 

And she'd never watched this _kind_ of video before, so she rather thought the both of them were peeking into a new world, a bit.

 

“Find me another,” he commanded, the second it was done.

 

She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose. It wasn't healthy to shame people's sexual preferences, and she didn't want to give him some sort of complex over what he liked. Given his heritage, he was probably loaded up on complexes already. “Like this one?”

 

He nodded, and she clicked on one of the suggested videos that popped up, watching his face as he leaned in to really examine it.

 

Hermione was honestly surprised he wasn't _more_ embarrassed to be doing this – watching a fully naked stranger mess around with another fully naked stranger. The fact that he could watch this with a straight face and not even a _hint_ of mortification really baffled her. Maybe it was a male thing.

 

“Can we do that?” he asked, shaking her from her reverie.

 

Her eyebrows shot up. “ _That_? Draco, I do _not_ bend that way.”

 

He laughed. “Not that part, just... the idea, in general.” At her expression, he sighed wistfully. “Not yet?” he guessed, in a wry tone.

 

“Being tied up really makes me nervous,” she admitted.

 

“What about a few weeks ago, when I held you down?” he wondered, canting his head to give her an assessing look.

 

She felt her face start to heat again. She _had_ liked that. It had even invaded her dreams a little, _quite_ against her preference, thank you very much. Hermione Granger had never been a sex-dreamer, and waking up in a state of half-arousal and having to go to work was an absolute nightmare. “That was fine,” she assured him, and he narrowed his eyes at her face. What he saw there must have pleased him, because his smirk returned. “But there's still the problem of me accidentally kicking you in the face.”

 

He shrugged a bit. “All good things are worth the risk. Let's go to bed.”

 

The sudden change of subject made her burst out laughing. “You are _so strange_ ,” she complained, although not very genuinely. “I don't know how I'm expected to put up with you.”

 

She was still laughing when he drew her up out of her chair and led her up the stairs, to the guest bedroom.

 

She was pleased to note that he still enjoyed sex the normal way.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Leaving him alone in my parents' house with the internet is going to prey on my mind all day,” Hermione complained. Around them, the Ministry cafeteria was in full-swing, all the combined conversations creating a cacophony that made her want to pull her brain out of her head and throw it out the nearest window. “I shudder to think what he's getting up to.”

 

Harry winced in apology. “I could probably tell you what he's getting up to.”

 

“Don't you dare,” she warned, although she felt her face heat again. She knew precisely what Draco was up to, of course, but she didn't dare admit to that. Not with Harry.

 

“As soon as I figure out how to get internet to work in _my_ house, I'm going to send Ginny and the kids on a trip to wherever they want for a week,” he said, in a dreamy tone. A flurry of peas bounced off of his glasses, and he cackled, brushing an errant one off of his sleeve. “You're too easy.”

 

“And you are _too gross_. Save that kind of talk for Ron. How is she coming along, anyway?”

 

“Who, Gin?” he asked, although he didn't bother waiting for a confirmation before continuing. “Good. We went to see the Healer Sunday, actually. The baby's coming along fine. There's something in the Weasley genes, I think, that absolutely precludes any possibility of pregnancy complications,” he added, shaking his head a bit in wonder. “I've not heard of _any_ Weasley children that didn't 'make it.' Not for generations. And generations. And more generations.”

 

“So really, if the Ministry wants to counteract the rising Squib population, they just need to figure out what freakish genetic material is hiding under that red hair,” she suggested, laughing.

 

He joined her. “There you go,” he commended her, waving his fork. “Squib crisis solved.”

 

She spooned some more of what-looked-like-meatloaf into her mouth. “Are you still thinking 'Lily'?”

 

He nodded. “Lily Luna, we were thinking, actually.”

 

“Is _every child_ of yours going to get a mention of people you like but _me_?” she demanded, jaw dropping.

 

“I wouldn't wish _your_ name on anyone. I wouldn't even wish it on _you_ ,” he reminded her, jabbing his fork in her direction. “I think you should take your parents to court and cite child abuse, because there's no _way_ they didn't think you were going to get beaten up on the daily with a name like _that_.”

 

She scoffed incredulously. “Oh, thank _you_ very _much_.”

 

“Besides, Ron's not getting one, either,” he added.

 

“You could have _said that first_. Or _just_ that, without all those insults.”

 

Harry shrugged. “Where's the fun in that?” He raised his hand in time to fend off the next volley of peas, and added, “You know, we're supposed to be _adults_ , now, Hermione!”

 


	59. The Mouse's Journey

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Mouse's Journey**

 

…

 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Ginny complained, as soon as Hermione walked in. She pointed at the two books and one journal in Hermione's arms, scowling. “ _No_. I said _no research_ during Girl Brunch.”

 

She clutched the books tightly to her chest as she approached the table. Susan and Ginny both already had what looked like mimosas. “I'm not!”

 

“Then what is _that_?”

 

“I just brought it for the train,” she defended, sitting down with a huff. She pointed at the two champagne glasses with a suspicious scowl. “Are you two supposed to be having those?”

 

“It's non-alcoholic,” Susan informed her, taking a sip.

 

Ginny pointed at her, her index finger ruthlessly invading Hermione's space bubble. She jerked her head away, shooting the redhead a glare. “If those were for the train, then you better put them away. Under the chair. Take them to the loo and put them in your bag. I know you've got an Extendable on it.”

 

“You are being absolutely barmy.”

 

The redhead's eyes widened. “Why won't you do it, then?” she demanded.

 

“Oh, for _God's sake_ ,” Hermione groaned, grabbing the books and heading into the loo. The food in Muggle London was far and away better than the food in Wizarding London, but it was annoying to have to go to the bathroom every few minutes. She was never more aware of how much casual magic she did in her day-to-day life than when she couldn't do it in public.

 

Locking herself in a stall, she glanced over the two books. Headmistress McGonagall had owled them over to her from the Hogwarts library, with strict instructions to return them within the week, or else Madame Pince was unlikely to allow it to happen again.

 

Honestly, she was surprised either McGonagall or Pince had agreed to lend her the books at all. She'd expected her inquiry to be met with the suggestion that she come to the school and read them in the library.

 

The first one was a text on Alchemical History, dating all the way back to Mesopotamia. The second was a set of hard-to-read Indian texts about the spiritual nature of alchemy.

 

The journal was duplicated from Draco's. He'd only given it to her the day before.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She reached greedily for the journal, and Draco snatched it back with a grimace. “Okay. There's something I should confess, _before_ you read this,” he said, slowly, and Hermione blinked at him, letting her hand drop. He fell silent for a long minute, and then cleared his throat. “Remember how you told me I wasn't to experiment with animals?”

 

He winced when her mouth dropped, her eyes growing wide and dewy with horror. “Draco!”

 

“It was _just a mouse_ ,” he hurried to say, but that had been the _wrong_ thing to say. She gasped, looking as tortured as if she'd just watched him stomp a puppy to death right in front of her. “I'd stunned it, first! It wasn't even awake, I swear.”

 

“Draco, how _could_ you?” she whispered, feeling her lower lip tremble just a bit. “A little mouse. You _promised_.”

 

“I _didn't_ , actually,” he said, carefully, aware of how much she despised it when he caught her up on the little technicalities. “You told me not to experiment with animals, and I made a sort of scoffing noise and rolled my eyes, which you took as agreement, but no agreement was _actually_ extended.”

 

“ _Draco_!”

 

He scowled a bit. “Don't say my name in that tone. I needed to know, Hermione.”

 

Her face scrunched up, and she snatched the journal from him and duplicated it with a wave of her wand. She thrust the original back at him and declared, “I'm not talking to you for the rest of the day.”

 

“You say talking, but I didn't hear any mention of night-time activities,” he mumbled, and she shot him such a heated glare that he immediately threw his hands up in surrender. “Different sides of the bed, facing away from each other, quick wank in the shower,” he said, in a rush. “Got it.” He was smart enough to make himself scarce shortly after, while she made herself tea and tried not to think about the poor, innocent mouse.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She hadn't gotten to the part about how the mouse reacted, yet, and she had to admit that even though she was horribly upset about it, still... she _was_ a little curious. Still, Ginny had made it clear after the last few brunch dates that Hermione's books, research, proposals, and work-related “nonsense” was not allowed within the hallowed walls of the little French eatery, and Hermione had reluctantly agreed.

 

Looking down at the journal, she wondered if she could get away with reading just a quick page before she left the loo. After considering Ginny's wrath, she grimaced and put the journal in her bag and quickly headed back out into the dining room.

 

“ _Thank_ you,” Ginny said, when she returned to the table. “I ordered you a non-alcoholic mimosa, because you're not allowed to get pissed while I'm sober. Solidarity.”

 

“How come this notion of 'solidarity' never seems to extend to Harry or Ron?” Hermione sighed, picking up her fun-free mimosa and taking a sip. There was already a cup of coffee beside it, and she reached for some sugar.

 

Susan chuckled. “To be fair, they have to live with us and put up with our mood swings and irrational demands all day, so probably best we let them keep the alcohol.”

 

“Oh, like I don't have to put up with you two plenty enough.”

 

She beamed. “Why don't you get pregnant with us, Hermione? We'll be like the three fat sisters,” she wheedled. “If you did it now, you wouldn't even be too far behind Ginny and I.”

 

“And give up alcohol and caffeine and sushi for nine months? I think not.”

 

Susan made a whining noise, and Ginny shook her head. “Give it up, Susan. Nothing short of a miracle is going to put a baby in Hermione before she's ready. Unless Draco's started replacing her birth control with Tic Tacs and poking holes in the condoms.”

 

“Does Draco _use_ condoms?” Susan wondered. “I dated a Pureblood, once, and he didn't even know what they were.”

 

Ginny frowned, head swiveling towards Hermione. Hermione cut her off, sharply: “ _None_ of your business.” The answer was no, of course. She also rather doubted that Draco knew what they were. When they'd first started sleeping together, she'd actually gone to her gynecologist a few times just to make sure she was still clean and clear of venereal diseases. After that, she'd asked him, once, and his response had been so indignant that she had to figure he was clean, too.

 

All the same, she'd set up an appointment with him at St. Mungo's, which he'd complained about every second of the way, but it was worth it to be sure.

 

“That sounds like a no,” Ginny murmured. “Besides, everything is our business. That's the rules.”

 

Hermione made an aggravated noise, remembering that the last time she'd kept anything from these two, they'd threatened her with tales of Harry's sexual prowess. “No, he doesn't use them. I don't know if he knows what they are,” she admitted. “I brought it up once in conversation and he didn't really react to the word.”

 

“So he didn't ask what they were?” Susan clarified.

 

She shook her head. “No, but that doesn't mean he knows what they are. He's so used to not understanding all the Muggle stuff that comes out of my mouth that he ignores about half of it. He'll only ask if it seems important or it seems like I _don't_ want to talk about it.”

 

Ginny snickered. “Typical boy.”

 

The waitress came by, and they ordered, none of them really looking at the menu. Hermione had it damn near memorized.

 

“How's house-sitting?” Susan asked.

 

Hermione huffed a soft laugh. “Kind of fun, actually. Playing house, I mean. In an actual house. He's having a lot of fun discovering the internet, I'm pretty sure he spends all day on it when I'm at work.”

 

Ginny wrinkled her nose a bit as Susan let out a barking laugh – unlike Ginny, Susan knew _exactly_ what Draco was likely getting up to on the internet. “Is that why he's not come over once this week?” Ginny groused, pouting a bit. Hermione hadn't really expected this development, but it seemed like Ginny had grown rather _attached_ to her husband. It was no longer just a friendship of gossip and clothes discussion. It was starting to resemble something like Best Friend status, and she honestly wasn't sure what to make of _that_ development.

 

Not that she was against it. It was just unexpected. “Probably,” she admitted.

 

“Good luck prying him away from it when your house-sitting is over,” Susan said, in a dry tone. “The real test will be seeing if he can figure out which channels on cable are the sexy ones.”

 

Hermione laughed as Ginny shot them both a confused frown. “He's actually shown very little interest in the telly. I really thought he'd be more into it,” she admitted. “The internet seems more... advanced, you know? I thought he'd enjoy the lack of interaction that the telly provides, but it seems like he's picking up on the internet at an _alarming_ rate. Do you know what he said to Crookshanks after kicking him out of the recliner, the other day?”

 

Already looking amused, Susan shook her head.

 

Hermione leaned in a bit. “'All your base are belong to us.'”

 

Susan burst out laughing, and Ginny finally shook her head a bit as her eyes darted between them. “What's so funny about _that_?” she asked, wrinkling her nose a bit. Hermione grinned, and she rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. 'It's a Muggle thing,'” she said, making her voice reedy and high-pitched in a faint mockery of her friend's.

 

“I don't sound like that. And yes, it is. Ask Harry about it. I'm sure he'll have a laugh.”

 

“It sounds stupid,” the redhead muttered, as their food arrived.

 

Hermione and Susan shared a look, but took pity on their friend, changing the subject to Quidditch. And Hermione didn't complain about it, just to even the scoreboard a bit.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Do you have your scarf?” Hermione called up the stairs. She was digging around her bag for some chapstick when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. When she looked up and took in his usual three-piece monstrosity of a suit, she grimaced. “Are you going to wear _that_?”

 

Draco glared at her. “Will you stop fussing?” he asked, eyebrows lifting a bit. “It's dinner in the Weasley Shack. Are you seriously worried about me embarrassing you?”

 

“Why do you have to dress up so _much_ , though?” He rolled his eyes, and she insisted, “No, really. No one else is going to be dressed that nicely. You'll look like you're trying to show them up, or like you're trying too hard, or just like... you're a prat.”

 

“I am a prat.”

 

“Yes, but could you spend _one evening_ trying not to advertise it?” she pleaded.

 

He scowled, setting his jaw. “I don't see why this is such a big deal. They know how I like to dress, surely. This will not come as a surprise.”

 

“I assure you, they do not keep track of your outfits,” she promised. “And you're going to paint a big target on your back with George, there, wearing that. If he doesn't find a way to spill his entire plate onto it, I'll be _shocked_.”

 

His eyes darkened almost murderously. “If he so much as puts a wrinkle in this suit, Ron will finally inherit the shop in its entirety.”

 

She dropped her head back, groaning. “Why are you so bloody difficult?” she muttered, finally fishing her chapstick out of her bag. She opened up the cap and smeared it onto her lips, the smell of strawberry hitting her nose, first. Her lips always became abominably dry when the weather started to cool.

 

Draco finished his descent, leaning in to kiss her, stealing some of the strawberry off her lips with a pleased hum. “Because I have to match you, love.”

 

“Funny,” she huffed. “Alright, let's go, but if George ruins that suit, don't say I didn't warn you.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As soon as they stepped out of the Floo, those assembled stared. Hermione was wearing jeans and a jumper, and her attire generally matched everyone else assembled. Draco, however, looked like he'd just stepped out of a Parisian fashion magazine.

 

Molly broke the silence first. “Mr. Malfoy, welcome. Don't you look nice.”

 

“That's an understatement,” Ron muttered, and leaned in to hiss, “Merlin, Hermione, you let him come like _that_? George is going to go nutters over it.”

 

She lifted her hands, intoning, “I gave him fair warning.”

 

“ _Thank_ you, Mrs. Weasley,” Draco said, cordially, while shooting Hermione and Ron a withering look. He stepped further into the living room, and added, “And Mr. Weasley. Thank you for having me in your home.”

 

“Happily. Well, it shouldn't be long before Bill and George arrive, so I'd better make sure dinner's coming along,” Molly said, shooting Draco's nice suit one last anxious look before she disappeared into the kitchen. She was mentally counting down the minutes it had to live, and also wondering just how bad the resulting duel was going to be when it was inevitably ruined. Arthur smiled at him, wanly, before following his wife.

 

Ginny gave Draco a once-over, her eyebrow lifting. When he returned her look with a haughty one of his own, she smiled. “Tell me, Draco, just how much do you hate that suit?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

“I'll ask you again in an hour,” she promised, with a nod.

 

Draco's lips thinned, and he turned to Hermione. “If you thought I was kidding about Ron inheriting the shop, you were wrong,” he said, in a low voice. “Whatever you lot think is going to happen, I advise you to _prevent it_ before I paint this house with obnoxious ginger _blood_.”

 

“You don't _prevent_ George,” Harry advised him, bouncing Albus on his knee. “You avoid or endure him.”

 

“Hermione,” Draco hissed, starting to grow visibly panicked.

 

“I _warned_ you not to wear that stupid thing,” she hissed back. “Maybe next time, you'll take me seriously.” When his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, she rolled her eyes. “I'll see what I can do, but _no promises_ , and I seriously _cannot_ stress that enough.”

 

Ron laughed, catching little James as he came running past. He stood, throwing the kid over his shoulder as James squealed with pure delight. “You're lucky, Draco. If anyone's got half a hope of keeping George in line, it's your wife.” He considered it as he headed out for the yard, and grimaced a bit. “Maybe a quarter-hope. Come on, bud, let's go look at the brooms!”

 

“No brooms!” Ginny barked. “Susan!”

 

“I'm on broom-watch,” Susan promised, standing up with a faint groan and following her husband outside.

 

Hermione lifted her chin to indicate Ron's form as he disappeared into the yard. “Go outside and be on broom-watch with Susan,” she suggested. “I've got to get to him before he sees you.”

 

Draco grumbled a bit, adjusting his cuffs a bit as he followed Ron out.

 

She turned and pointed at Harry and Ginny, as well. “Both of you clear out. I'll need him alone,” she said, gravely.

 

Harry sighed and stood, holding Albus in one arm while helping Ginny up from the floor with the other. “Yeah, yeah, we know the drill,” he said, leading his wife outside to enjoy the setting sun and the cool air. Hermione knew that threatening men tended to go better when they didn't have an audience to posture in front of.

 

Which was why she always did her best to get them alone. Harry and Ron, by this point, knew that trouble was brewing when Hermione managed to trap one of them in a room, her eyes boiling over with fury.

 

The next ten minutes, she spent waiting in front of the fireplace, listening to her friends play outside.

 

When the Floo roared, George barely had time to utter a 'hello' before Hermione whirled on him, her wand out and pressing into the pulse at his neck. His eyes flew wide as he stumbled back into the wall, his hands raised in surrender. “Now, you listen to me, George Weasley,” she said, in a low, dangerous tone. “My _husband_ is here as a guest of your mother, and he is going to have a _nice time_. You are allowed as many verbal attacks as you can manage to squeeze out of that puerile brain of yours, but physical jokes are _off the table_ , or you'll be eating apple sauce and baby food for the next two weeks. Am I _quite_ understood?”

 

He swallowed, his eyes flicking down to where her hand was wrapped around the base of her wand. And he opened his mouth, and said, “You look _so_ eminently shaggable right now.”

 

“ _George_ ,” she warned, digging the tip of her wand into the soft spot beneath his jawbone.

 

“Alright,” he agreed, wincing a bit. “Verbal warfare only. Tonight.”

 

“Tonight,” she agreed, removing her wand from his neck. That was more than fair; Draco would have to eventually learn how to fend off George's attacks on his own. “Thank you for your cooperation,” she added, primly.

 

He rubbed at his neck, and grinned. “I meant that, about you looking shaggable. You're quite sexy when you're angry.”

 

“Don't make me hex you,” she scoffed, turning abruptly away to hide the sudden flush to her cheeks as she flounced out into the backyard to join her friends. His laughter followed her.

 

Draco looked up at her, stiffening, when she appeared, and she gave him a faint nod. “I handled it,” she said, quietly, and he relaxed a bit.

 

George follow her out, and he froze when he saw the blonde. Slowly, he lifted his hand to point at him. “Oh, that's not fair,” he said, his gaze going from Draco to Hermione. “He's going to wear _that_? Hermione. Be reasonable.”

 

“George, do _not_ make me pull my wand out, again,” she said, her tone sharp.

 

He groaned, throwing his hands up and moving to join Harry and Ron, who were _very carefully_ guiding a broom around at about two feet off the ground, with a laughing James astride. Draco watched him go, and slid an appreciative look towards his wife.

 

“You threatened him?” he wondered.

 

“That's an ugly word,” she said, in an even tone. “I prefer to think of it as making my expectations of the evening clear.”

 

He tried to stifle the smile, but he couldn't, and ducked his head a bit to hide it until it faded away. “I love you,” he murmured to her, warmly, and she chuckled, finding his hand and threading her fingers through his.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

George actually played fairly nice during dinner, only offering the occasional lewd comment to Draco. After dinner, he even invited Draco to the post-dinner Quidditch game. Before heading out to the yard, though, he leaned in to Hermione and whispered, “Do I accept?”

 

“You should,” she whispered back. “But you might get grass stains. They're not going to hold back because you're in a suit. You might want to take the jacket and the waistcoat off.”

 

Ten minutes later, Hermione was holding Albus between her curled legs while Bill, Angelina, Ron, and Susan faced off against George, Harry, Ginny, and Draco. Arthur came out to watch, too, but mostly to keep James entertained and off the little impromptu 'pitch' that had formed behind the Burrow. It only took about fifteen minutes for the game to get unreasonably vicious (although the men were careful of the pregnant ladies, Ginny had no qualms about capitalizing on this 'weakness').

 

Even so, it was nice to see Draco have fun. She realized that the last couple of times she'd been privy to him while flying – or on a rollercoaster – she'd been so beside herself with terror that she hadn't been able to enjoy his face while it happened.

 

He was grinning and laughing, looking remarkably care-free. Even _George_ gave him a friendly jostle when he kicked one of the bludgers away, calling, “Nice one!”

 

“He seems to be fitting in alright,” Arthur observed, looking a little relieved.

 

Hermione huffed a bit. “And all it took was a game of backyard Quidditch. Too bad we didn't think of _that_ during the War, hey?”

 

He chuckled a bit. “Might have saved a few years of trouble,” he agreed, patting her on the head.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She sat at the kitchen table most days, after work, poring over Draco's journal of notes and the two books she'd been sent about alchemy. One thought that kept returning to her was written near the front of his notes:

 

_Of the ten people who smelled the potion, the only one who smelled what the author of the recipe had said we would smell is Hermione._

 

Harry had smelled snow. Ginny had smelled grass and leather. Susan had smelled smoke. Ron had smelled bacon. Narcissa had smelled peppermint. Lucius had smelled rotting meat. Blaise had smelled olive oil. Pansy had smelled something metallic, and had hesitantly classified it as “blood, maybe.”

 

Draco had smelled marzipan.

 

But what did it all _mean_? Hermione frowned at the book McGonagall had suggested she read, the Indian one. It seemed to be less about the science of alchemy and more about the nature of the soul and of magic. It was a difficult read, so filled with flowery descriptions that Hermione could barely slog through the text without getting a headache. However, McGonagall had sent it, with the note that Dumbledore's portrait had suggested it.

 

So, she read it, and she didn't think she was finding anything of _use_ , really. It was just a bunch of fancy descriptions about the nature of life, it seemed like. Some drivel about everyone being connected to the 'world soul.'

 

Turning away from the book with a sigh, she flipped to the next page of his notes, grimacing when she saw “The Mouse” at the top of the page.

 

_I stunned the mouse, rendering it unconscious but alive. Using metal tongs, I gripped said mouse and submerged it into the potion up to its neck. Its eyes opened promptly upon contact, and I think it may have squeaked, but it didn't move or otherwise struggle despite obviously having recovered from the stun._

 

_When I brought it out, it was unharmed, and resumed exploring its terrarium as though nothing had happened._

 

_I didn't stun it the second time. It struggled against the metal tongs, obviously uncomfortable, but as soon as its tail touched the potion, it immediately fell still. It didn't struggle when I covered its ears and eyes, and didn't close its mouth when I fully submerged it. When I returned it to the terrarium, it struggled to breathe for a moment and then returned to its normal activities once it had cleared its nasal passage._

 

In the margin, he'd added: _Watched it for three weeks. No health issues. Still acting like normal_.

 

Hermione frowned, flipping to the front of the journal again, where he'd detailed the recipe. Nothing in the recipe resembled any potion she knew, really, and _certainly_ nothing that should render an animal into a passive state when it was being actively drowned.

 

Draco wandered into the kitchen, opening the cupboard he'd learned contained the tea, and she said, “I got to the mouse.”

 

He turned, eyebrows lifting a bit as he plucked two packages of Earl Grey from the box. He hesitated, not sure if she was going to be upset with him again, but her frown seemed more _academic_ than _angry_ , so he prompted, “And?”

 

“None of the ingredients in the potion should be capable of subverting an animal's desire to survive, like that,” she said, softly. “It's odd.”

 

Draco nodded, waving his wand wordlessly. Two mugs floated free of another cupboard and settled on the counter, filling with boiling water as he flicked his wand again. He plopped the teabags in, and said, slowly, “Since the mouse was not harmed...”

 

“Do _not_ touch the potion,” she bit out, lips thinning. “The mouse is unharmed _so far_. Who knows what long-term effects it could have?”

 

“I've run diagnostic spells on that mouse. It's perfectly healthy.”

 

She frowned at the journal. Something about this made her uneasy, and she wasn't sure _what_ , but years of being in a literal war had taught her to listen to her gut. “I don't want you to touch it,” she said, stubbornly.

 

He sighed, passing her one of the mugs. “If the mouse survives the year...”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Hermione,” he murmured. “We can't discover new things if we're not willing to take the occasional risk.”

 

She felt her nose sting with the sudden urge to cry, startling herself. “Risk something _else_ ,” she said, her voice wavering a bit. Draco blinked in shock when he realized that she was tearing up, and he hastily set his own mug down and circled the table. She stood and turned into him as he put his arms around her.

 

“What's wrong?” he whispered, bemused, as he smoothed his hand over her hair.

 

“I don't know,” she admitted, feeling utterly silly. “I just don't want you to touch it.”

 

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, I won't touch it.”

 

She inhaled shakily, leaning into him. He smelled like clean linen and pine, and the faintest hint of crushed thyme clung to him, the combination of smells unmistakably _Draco_. She looped her hands around his waist, relaxing a bit. “Sorry, I don't know what got into me,” she mumbled into his chest.

 

He leaned back, dipping his head down to press a kiss against her face. She laughed a bit, wetly, and lifted her chin to kiss him. “It's alright,” he assured her, squeezing her a bit.

 


	60. Mercury

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty: Mercury**

 

…

 

She began to obsess about the potion even when she was at work. She'd be in the middle of drafting when a thought would occur to her, and she'd spend about a minute wrestling with herself over whether or not she should write it down. She didn't want to forget it, but she was also supposed to be _focusing_.

 

She started keeping a little notepad in her desk drawer to scribble her thoughts on.

 

“Hermione,” Lucius snapped, and she straightened with a guilty jolt. He glared at her over the table. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy _never_ appreciated, it was failing to receive the amount of attention he considered his due. “Would you like to reconvene this lunch at a more convenient time for your mental faculties?” he drawled, but there was a hint of cool steel beneath the laziness in his tone.

 

She winced. “Sorry, no, I'm paying attention. … That being said, can you repeat what you just said?”

 

He sighed, eyes flicking up to the ceiling of the restaurant as if to ask some unnamed god what he'd done to deserve being saddled with such a _moron_ for a protege. “There is an opening in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, within the Investigations Department – Senior Investigator.”

 

“ _Senior_ Investigator? Don't I have to be an Investigator, first?” she asked, doubtfully.

 

“Were you a normal witch, yes. But you are Hermione Malfoy nee Granger,” he reminded her, coolly. “Best friend of the Boy Who Lived and the Brightest Witch Of Her Age. If you apply, you will receive the position.”

 

Hermione hesitated, frowning. “Are you _sure_? Because it would be terribly embarrassing to apply and _not_ get it.”

 

“I am absolutely certain,” he said, with a grim sense of finality.

 

“How do you know?”

 

A faint smile touched his lips, but he remained silent.

 

She made an aggravated noise, rolling her eyes. “You know, this isn't much of a master-protege relationship if you don't actually teach me how to do what you do,” she snapped. “We both know what we're trying to achieve, here, so why all the secrecy? I'm beginning to get _suspicious_ , and generally, me being suspicious has _not_ worked out for you, previously.”

 

“Calm down,” he ordered, with a nasal sigh.

 

“ _You_ calm down,” she retorted, crossing her arms. She was feeling awfully petulant.

 

“Highly mature.” She glared at him, and he chuckled. “You are in quite a state of emotions, Hermione. Are you sure you're not already with child?” It was faintly teasing, but also gravely serious. He knew she could not afford to become pregnant _now_ , when it was time to make a move to another department. She needed to be firmly entrenched in the DMLE before she took a months-long sabbatical to deal with a baby.

 

Hermione snorted. “I'm sure.”

 

The seeming carelessness of her tone drew his attention, and he peered at her. “How certain are you? Perhaps you should seek a Healer to be entirely certain.”

 

“Listen, just trust me when I say that I'm certain. So when are you going to tell me--”

 

“Hermione, I don't think you understand what a crucial turning point in your career this move is. You cannot afford to get pregnant this year,” he said, firmly.

 

“Oh, my God,” she groaned. “I'm _not pregnant_. Just trust me.”

 

“I trust what I can see,” he returned, with a measure of distaste. “A simple diagnostic spell from a licensed Healer--”

 

He stopped short when she fished a handful of crinkling plastic tubes from her bag and threw it into the center of the table, her eyebrows raised. Lucius stared at them, and carefully picked one up, holding it up so he could read the tiny writing on the side. _Tampax_?

 

“What is this?” He ran a finger over the edge, and curiously moved to open the package. Her laughter stopped him.

 

She reached over and scooped up the other three tubes from the center of the table. “Tampons. You Purebloods really _do_ live a medieval existence, don't you? I honestly feel _terrible_ for all the women in your social circles.” When he just stared at her, she said, sweetly, “It's a tube of cotton for a woman to put up her vagina when she's having her monthly blood. Keeps it from ruining her clothes.”

 

He dropped the tampon like it was a white-hot iron, his face paling considerably. “ _Remove_ that from the table this _instant_ ,” he hissed, two bright spots of red blooming on his cheeks.

 

Hermione grinned, satisfied with herself, and plucked it up and put it in her bag. “Happy?”

 

His glower would have made Snape himself shrivel up like a slug. The intensity of it would have been scorching, were she not riding on the high of having finally bested the beast. “That was unnecessary.”

 

“Oh, and a completely redundant trip to St. Mungo's isn't,” she retorted. “Now tell me how you know I'll get that position.”

 

Lucius wiped his fingers off on his napkin, as though the plastic of the tampon wrapper had somehow _tainted_ him. His glare could have peeled paint off a car, but he managed to grit out, “I had a conversation with the Department Head and he was visibly excited at the prospect of your application. Potter has enjoyed a successful career among the Aurors and he is hoping to replicate that with you.”

 

“Hm.” She leaned back, thinking. Senior Investigator _would_ be a sizable jump up. “How long would I be a Senior Investigator before I had to move again?”

 

“You should spend no more than two years in any position until you reach your goal,” he said, firmly. The judgment in his tone over her currently-held position of _three_ years was clear. “If the jump is on a smaller scale, one year will suffice.”

 

“That seems so quick,” she murmured.

 

“I have mentioned it to you previously, Hermione: Bureaucratic careers move quickly, or not at all. The current Assistant Head for the Aurors is retiring in less than two years, and your friend Potter is a shoe-in for the position.”

 

Stunned, she almost asked, _Already_? But she didn't want to make him repeat himself. “Alright. So what's next, after Senior Investigator?”

 

“The first Assistant Head position to become available after you've completed one year in the position. Hopefully a vacancy occurs before your two-year mark.”

 

Jesus. She tried not to succumb to the dizzy feeling of life moving a little too fast for her taste. She _did_ want to become Minister for Magic, one day, after all. Lucius was a snake, in and out, but she knew the best chance she stood of getting the position was with him whispering her every move into her ear. “Okay, I'll apply.”

 

He grunted, still moody, and she stifled a grin.

 

“What's wrong?” she asked, innocently.

 

“You are irritating.”

 

“Are you sure? Sure you're not _pregnant_?” He cast her a quelling look, but she finally succumbed to her urge to grin broadly at him as they both stood. “Maybe we should go to St. Mungo's and make _extra sure_. I mean, I know you're a man and all, but _anything_ can happen and we can't reasonably expect you to know what's going on with your _own body_ \--”

 

His hand closed on the back of her neck – a sweet gesture to any innocent on-lookers, maybe, almost fatherly, but she could feel the threat within it as he squeezed just slightly. “Enough.”

 

Snickering, she led the way out, grabbing her umbrella from the hostess with a cheery _thanks!_

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she returned to her desk, she was startled to find it already occupied.

 

“Parkinson,” she said, eyes widening a smidgen. Pansy was lounging in her chair, her legs crossed, and flipping lazily through a magazine. “Uh, sorry if you came by to get lunch, I'm just coming back.”

 

“No, I know,” Pansy said, with a flick of her fingers. What was it with Purebloods and flicking their fingers like that? It was like they were all descended from fatigued royalty. “I was on my way in to see if you wanted to grab a bite but I saw him, and he told me he was taking you somewhere. I don't _dare_ step on _that_ man's regal toes,” she muttered, sarcasm fairly dripping from her tone.

 

She stood, cocking a hip and propping her hand on it. “I wanted to see if you wanted to go to the theater this Saturday. _Le Reve de Dragon_ is playing.”

 

“Me? Not Draco?” Hermione asked, gently, as she unfolded her scarf from her neck.

 

Pansy's expression grew stormy. “I'm _more_ than through with men, at the moment,” she grit out, and Hermione blinked a bit at the savagery of her expression. There was definitely a story, _there._ “I'm bringing Daphne Greengrass. I thought we could do a girl's night. You can bring someone, too, if you're concerned about being outnumbered.”

 

A _girl's night_ out with Pansy Parkinson. This _must_ be a dream. “Um, sure,” she said, shrugging out of her robe. “I'll see if Ginny or Susan are free. Oh, no, actually, Ginny has a game this weekend--” And she was pretty sure Ron and Susan were going to Ireland with Harry to watch it. Hermione felt the words tumbling out of her lips and cut them off; she could tell from Pansy's increasingly bored expression that she wasn't interested in a full explanation. “I'll just go. I'm sure I can hold my own.”

 

The black-haired girl seemed almost surprised, and she hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do now that Hermione had _accepted_ her invitation. Finally, she flicked her hair a bit and said, “Meet you out front, then. Wear something dazzling.”

 

She started to sweep out, and Hermione turned on her heel. “Uh, define 'dazzling'?”

 

Pansy leaned back in. “Just have Draco help you. He knows what's appropriate.” With a bit of a finger wave, she was gone, leaving Hermione standing in her cubicle, stunned.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Pansy Parkinson invited me to the theater,” Hermione announced, the second she Flooed into her parent's house. She said it loudly; experience had taught her that extra volume was needed in a house of this size. In a way, it made her miss the intimacy of her flat, where she could raise her voice just slightly and be heard by him, no matter where he was.

 

There was some scuffling upstairs, and she heard a creak as he leaned against the bannister. “She invited _us_?” he clarified.

 

“No, just me. It's a 'girl's night out,' apparently?” She tossed her robe on the back of the recliner, too tired to walk all the way to the front door, where the rack was. “She's bringing Daphne Greengrass. Anyway, she said I had to dress up, so you'll have to provide some of your expertise on just _how_ dressed up she expects me to get.”

 

He descended the stairs, looking a little rumpled in boxers and a t-shirt Ginny had given him with the Rolling Stones icon on it.

 

Hermione glared at him. “Have you been _sleeping_ all day?”

 

“No. I ate breakfast with you,” he pointed out, defensively. He made a bee-line for the kitchen.

 

“And _then_ what did you do?”

 

He squinted at her, his mind stalling out a bit. As slick and quick as Draco usually was, he tended to need a minute or two after waking up before his ability to issue smooth and flawless lies really cemented. “I read,” he said, after a pregnant pause.

 

“What did you read?” she challenged, promptly.

 

“A _book_.”

 

She put her fists on her hips. “About?”

 

He stared at her for a beat, and then turned on his heel to walk into the kitchen. “Need tea.”

 

“Oh, my God,” she muttered. “How _long_ have you been sleeping? Please tell me you haven't been sleeping since _breakfast_. You're going to be up _all night_.” She followed him into the kitchen. “And if you think I'm staying up with you to entertain you, you're very wrong.”

 

Draco shot her a speculative look, his gaze dipping down her body. “How would you entertain me?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

 

She narrowed her eyes at him, huffing as she moved towards the fridge to grab some of the Chinese take-out leftovers. “You're a child.”

 

“That makes you a pedophile.”

 

The smugness in his tone forced her to turn around, staring at him where he snickered. “That joke _was not_ strong enough to warrant that much self-satisfaction,” she said, primly, as she pulled the little white cartons out and set them on the counter. “You are clearly not at your prime this close to sleep. Or perhaps your wit has simply degraded over time, as I always _suspected_ it would.”

 

The smell of tea steeping filled the little kitchen, and she startled a bit when his arms snaked around her middle. “You are simply enchanting when you're snarky.”

 

She shut the fridge door with a kick and moved towards the microwave, making an annoyed noise when she was forced to drag him along with her. “I'm afraid I'm simply not attracted to dim-wits, Draco, so if you would please unhand me--”

 

Hermione squeaked as he turned her, stepping in to press her arse against the counter.

 

“Draco, I'm trying to heat up supper,” she complained, her voice a little breathy.

 

His answering smirk was almost lazy, his eyes heavy-lidded. “It can wait.”

 

She laughed. “You know I can't, right now,” she reminded him.

 

He shrugged. “We can still do fun stuff that doesn't involve taking out that thing you put in you,” he pointed out. After a beat, he squinted at her. “Talpins?”

 

“Tampons,” she corrected. “Dinner, first. I'm famished.”

 

He made a slightly whiny noise in his throat, dropping his head to feather kisses up and down the side of her neck. The sensation made her toes curl, and she dropped her head back, her grip loosening on the carton of rice. His hands smoothed over her hips, and she hastily set the carton down on the counter before she dropped it.

 

“Draco,” she sighed, half chiding and half _begging_. It had been three days since their last instance of sexual intercourse, and generally speaking that wasn't _all that long_ – except when one accounted for how unreasonably horny one got for the duration of menstruation.

 

His fingers tugged her skirt up her thighs until they could reach the hem. He ran the pads of his fingers over her hips, tracing the line of her underwear. “Twenty minutes,” he whispered against her jaw.

 

Hermione groaned. “You are _so obnoxious_ ,” she complained, but abandoned the take-out on the counter to shove him towards the entry way.

 

His answering smile was smug as he grasped her hand and tugged her upstairs to the bedroom.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They'd ended up leaving the take-out on the counter for well over an hour, and she determined with a sigh that she didn't particularly trust it not to make her sick, anymore. She tossed it out and they ordered in a pizza.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Look at this,” she told him, shoving the book she'd been reading into his face. It was Friday, and she'd spent the rest of the week slogging through the text – and what she'd found was fairly fascinating, in her opinion. “In Ancient Indian alchemy, there was a school that thought to purify and immortalize the body with mercury treatments. It was a way of freeing the body from reincarnation.”

 

Draco nodded, absently, still focused on his book. She'd interrupted his reading about thirty times in the past hour with some new revelation or other from the Indian text.

 

“Draco, you're not paying attention,” Hermione huffed, impatiently. “You could at least _look up_?”

 

“Why?” he enunciated, shooting her a tired glare.

 

“Because it's _interesting_ , and I think it might be connected to that potion you're brewing. Don't you think this is _interesting_?” she demanded, hotly.

 

“Yes,” he snapped. “And I found it interesting _two years ago_ when I read about it. You do realize that I've applied to an Alchemical University and have been reading about alchemy for years, now? Why do you insist on talking to me as though I'm coming from the same pool of ignorance as you?”

 

Hermione stared at him, her mouth falling open. “ _Ignorance_? It's hardly ignorant to just not have learned something, yet--”

 

“That's actually the definition of ignorance,” he interrupted, with a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I don't know how much you paid attention to anything other than Harry Potter's various death wishes in school, but I actually made excellent marks, and _without_ you condescendingly explaining everything to me.”

 

“I'm not being condescending!”

 

“You're explaining the basic _history of alchemy_ to someone pursuing a _mastery of alchemy_ ,” he grit out. “Pray tell, if you don't consider that to be condescending, what _do_ you consider to be condescending?”

 

He really was a bloody git, sometimes. “I'm just trying to _help_ ,” she defended.

 

Draco slammed his book shut, and she jolted at the sudden noise. His glare was equal parts icy and withering, and she leaned away from him a little, looking mutinous. “And helping is the one thing you promised not to do. Do you recall that? I specifically told you _not to help_ , because for one thing, I do not need it, and for another, _I don't want you to_.”

 

“So I'm not allowed to be interested in your potion? It's all yours, all of it. One of the strangest mysteries in modern times, and you're so selfish that--”

 

“ _If I hadn't brewed the bloody thing from my father's book, you wouldn't even know it existed!_ ” he exploded. “And I've only just brewed the damn thing successfully a few months ago, which I did _by myself_. I experimented _by myself_ , and I wrote notes _by myself_ , and I'm _figuring out my conclusions_ by my _bloody self_!” Hermione had fallen silent, wide-eyed, as he ranted. “Just because your two 'best friends' stood by and accepted your endless haranguing in exchange for you writing their damn essays for them doesn't mean everyone else is willing to make the same deal. I got plenty of great grades without having to suffer through the endless tedium of your little lectures. So why don't you go bore _literally anyone else_ for a change?”

 

Speechless, she just stared at him. He maintained frigid eye contact for a moment more before pointedly returning to his book, content that he'd finally shut her up.

 

She'd known, of course, that he hadn't wanted to include her in on this – at least, not to this extent. And she'd even told herself not to try and help him, but it was a _puzzle_ and Hermione had never been the sort of person that could leave a puzzle unsolved and still get eight hours of sleep at night. She found the potion exciting, and it was _so rare_ to find someone who found the same things exciting that she did.

 

That was why she usually felt so lucky to have Draco. Harry and Ron would have never sat through her blathering about alchemy. Well, and stayed awake, at least.

 

And it turned out that Draco wouldn't, either.

 

She swallowed, carefully, making sure that it was silent even though her throat felt a little bruised. “Sorry,” she murmured, turning away from him and standing. “I'll just read up in the room.”

 

He didn't look up as she headed for the stairs.

 

Midway up them, she stopped, and said, “That was low, implying that the only thing Harry and Ron ever saw in me was a bumper for their marks.” Her voice was quiet. He still didn't look up, and the back of his head betrayed no reaction to what she'd said.

 

When he didn't respond, she finished going up the stairs, and gently closed the door to the guest bedroom.

 

Downstairs, Draco stared at the page he'd been reading, his eyes gazing through the book. Moments later, the crack of her Disapparating echoed through the house, and he closed his eyes.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Oi, we're about to _close_ ,” George hollered, as the little bell above the door betrayed Hermione's arrival. As she weaved through the stacks and into view, the redhead groaned, and pointed at her. “ _You_. I'm still mad at you after that trick you pulled,” he informed her, although the way the corners of his lips crooked up said otherwise.

 

She smiled, wanly. “Sorry to burst in,” she murmured.

 

“Oh, Merlin, you look as though you've been sick,” he laughed. “Or like you're about to be. If you _must_ get sick, do it on Ron's products, Granger.”

 

“Malfoy,” she corrected, absently.

 

“We both know I'm _never_ going to call you that.” She huffed a soft laugh, her eyes darting around the shop uneasily. George sobered a bit, frowning at her as she approached the counter. “Alright,” he sighed, leaning his elbows against the till. “I do _not_ normally ask this, but as _usual_ , I'll make an exception for you: Everything alright?”

 

Her inhale had a bit of a stutter to it, and her face pinched in embarrassment. “Home problems,” she muttered, not really wanting to go too deeply into it with George. He'd probably _agree_ with Draco. “I know you have that spare room out of your workshop, and I was wondering if I could sleep there.”

 

Blinking, the redheaded troublemaker tilted his head a smidgen. “As opposed to staying at Harry's?”

 

Hermione smiled, grimly. “I was preferring a place that he wouldn't think to really look,” she admitted. “I don't really want to talk to him, right now, and he's probably already looking for me to try and patch things up. He hates letting things sit, even for a second,” she added, in a bitter mumble. Draco was like mercury, himself – always sliding from one emotional extreme to the other, making snap judgments, darting impatiently from task to task. As soon as he got it into his head that he wanted to fix something, the fact that she wasn't particularly ready didn't seem to matter to him.

 

George's lips thinned a bit. “What did he do?”

 

She shrugged. “It's stupid,” she deflected. “We just argued. I guess living in close quarters, like that, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

 

“So the honeymoon's _officially_ over, then? On a scale of one to blistering, how mad would you say you are, right now?” he wondered.

 

“If I had a timeturner on me, _right now_ , I'd go back and stop myself from threatening you last Sunday and let you ruin his suit,” she promised, her eyes narrowing slightly as she imagined the god-awful scene it would make. She lingered on the revenge fantasy for a second before sighing and mentally shooing it away. No need to be petty. “So, can I borrow the room?”

 

“Sorry,” he said, and she felt her shoulders droop. “I'm actually going to be staying late, experimenting, that sort of thing. I'm _definitely_ going to be using it. So, I guess that just leaves my flat.”

 

Hermione stared at him a moment. She felt a smile worming onto her face and tried to keep it at bay, but it soon won out. “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling her heart warm. That was the way of the twins, she remembered – they could be nice, almost heart-stoppingly so, but damned if they weren't going to twist it around so it didn't _look_ like they were being nice.

 

He smiled, and it was a little more sincere and fond than his usual crooked grin. He tilted his head towards the back. “Floo's connected to it. Go get some rest.”

 

She headed back, knowing better than to try and give George a hug (whatever rare moments of sincere kindness he displayed were consistently _short_ , and he'd definitely feel the need to prank her or otherwise defile the moment). Within moments, she was stumbling into his flat.

 

Once inside, Hermione was frozen for a full minute as she stared at the _immaculate_ living room and kitchen, her eyes widening a bit. Who knew _George Weasley_ was this _clean_? Ron was an absolute pig.

 

“And suddenly this day is less shite,” she murmured to herself, heading for the hallway to find the bedroom. This probably meant that he regularly cleaned his sheets, too (a concern that had hit her mid-Floo). After transfiguring her clothes into something suitable for sleep, she slipped into his ( _made!_ ) bed. She assumed, honestly, that she was going to spend the night restlessly tossing, but instead she was asleep within minutes, somehow knackered from the confrontation with her husband.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When she woke, there was a brief moment of confusion when she _didn't_ feel the sinewy, overly-warm form of a body pressed against her back. Realization dawned moments later, and the confusion melted into a curious sort of depression.

 

It was Saturday, so she only place she had to _be_ was at the theater at eight o'clock. She wondered how George would take it if she just _stayed_ at his flat until then.

 

Actually, she wondered how _Angelina_ would take it, and _that_ thought pulled her out of his bed. She'd never been on the woman's bad side, and she wasn't sure if this would do the trick, but she _also_ wasn't particularly interested in finding that out.

 

She transfigured her clothes back, wondering if she should risk a run to her flat to try and change.

 

Eventually, she decided to head to the _second_ to last place Draco would ever think to check for her: The Manor.

 

The Floo was usually warded against outside connections, and she groaned when she realized she'd have to Floo to the _Ministry_ first. She did so, quickly, keeping her head ducked and trying to avoid the startled gazes of the poor sops spending their Saturday at work.

 

When she spilled into the Manor's ballroom, a house elf that had been dusting the massive curtains squeaked in shock and disappeared with a _pop_.

 

It was only about forty seconds before Narcissa was gliding into the room. Her surprise quickly fell away to a wide smile. “Hermione,” she said, warmly, and Hermione _almost missed_ the way the blonde's eyes flicked over her rumpled attire. “I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you. I didn't know you were coming.”

 

She grimaced. “Sorry,” she said, leaning in to kiss Narcissa's cheeks in greeting. “It was kind of... impromptu. I can't really head back to my flat right now, Draco's using it for something--” She prayed to _God_ Narcissa wouldn't question her further on that. “And I needed a change of clothes. Also, I've been invited to the theater tonight and I have no idea what to wear, and you're sort of the person I go to for wardrobe questions.”

 

 _That_ had apparently been the right thing to say, because Narcissa perked right up, beaming. Hermione watched the faint question of Draco's whereabouts fade from the blonde's eyes and gave a mental sigh of relief.

 

“Oh, I'd be happy to dress you, darling. Come along,” she said, turning a bit.

 

Hermione hastened to fall in beside her. “I'm really sorry for the short notice,” she added. “You weren't doing anything urgent, right now, were you?”

 

“No, just steering clear of my husband's study while he entertains one of his friends,” Narcissa said, breezily enough that Hermione _almost_ forgot to wonder if one of Lucius' 'friends' was, perhaps, a former Death Eater or Voldemort-sympathizer. “I considered re-arranging the greenhouse, today, as well. I wouldn't mind some company, for it.”

 

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione said, with a grateful smile. Really, she was happy for _any_ sort of distraction.

 


	61. Starcharts On Vellum

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-One: Starcharts On Vellum**

 

…

 

One sundress later, Hermione was in the green-house, helping Narcissa levitate flower-beds around to what Narcissa assured her was a more 'pleasing' arrangement. Hermione really did not see much of a difference, but she knew better than to try and argue. After that, her mother-in-law asked her to stay for tea. It was far too cold to take it outside, but she brought Hermione up to the top floor, explaining that they would take tea in the solarium.

 

Hermione had never explored this high up in the Manor before, but the second she saw everything up there, she promptly fell in love.

 

The stairs spilled out into an open space, lined with bookshelves. There were windows and skylights illuminating the massive foyer, and there was a sense of long-forgotten-ness to it, as though no one had been up there in several years. She saw a small toy horse in the corner. “Did Draco play up here?”

 

“Oh, no,” Narcissa laughed, softly. “No, we seldom frequent these floors, honestly. It can be tedious, walking up all those stairs. But some generations back, the top floor was considered very firmly to be family-only, and sometimes when the house was too full, the children would recede to this space to play, or study. When great-grand-parents stayed in the Maple Suite, it was considered to be good for their health to have children nearby.”

 

Narcissa headed to the perimeter of the room, which was ringed with a bannister to separate it from the corridor. The library-slash-playspace was sunken down, a bit, and there were three sets of two steps to reach the wrap-around hallway. Hermione could see five doors, and then the hallway stretched out of sight.

 

She followed raptly as Narcissa introduced her to several of the rooms.

 

Off the central space, the five doors led to the solarium, the observatory, a drawing room, and two studies. Down one end of the hallway was the Maple Suite, and the other end led to another drawing room, another study, and what Narcissa called the 'church.'

 

Her jaw dropped a bit when she took in the observatory. It had a domed, glass ceiling – currently covered with shutters to keep out the sunlight – and a telescope with an attached seat. Wooden bookshelves surrounded the circular room, and while some carried perfectly average books, most of them held rolled parchments. Hermione peered at some of the rolls, and asked, incredulously: “Is this _vellum_?”

 

Narcissa smiled and pulled one of the vellum rolls free. “Indeed. These are Malfoy family starcharts. Some time ago, reading the stars was considered to be the most reliable method of divination. These charts are quite accurate and very detailed.”

 

Carefully, she unrolled the vellum. Hermione leaned in, her mouth falling slightly open as she took in the crisp black lines that formed the grid, and the glowing golden ink that marked the stars and constellations. Her eyes widened when the glowing constellations shifted gently, and she watched them pass beneath the grid in open fascination. “Is it moving?” she whispered.

 

“Of course.” Narcissa ran a fingertip to the corner, unrolling it to reveal the markers that indicated which section of the sky the vellum was portraying. “It would not be very useful if it did not show which stars were actually in this sector, now, would it?”

 

Hermione looked up at the shuttered glass, utterly amazed. Stars that could be perceived as they moved even in broad daylight... That was just so-- “That's so amazing,” she murmured, entranced. She felt an odd pang of loss as Narcissa smiled, rolling the vellum back up and putting it back in its proper place. She watched the blonde caress the rolled chart a bit as she turned away, and swallowed a bit. She wondered if Narcissa had searched the stars to divine her future with Draco.

 

She didn't dare ask. Not when they finally seemed comfortable, together, again. She didn't particularly want to dredge up that fight.

 

“Come, let me show you the rest of the floor.”

 

The solarium had a table set in it already for their oncoming tea. The entire wall and half of the ceiling was glass, letting sunlight pour into the room. It illuminated some dust specks floating around the room, and Narcissa sighed. “I told them to _dust_ ,” she tsked, heading out of the room promptly to find the nearest house-elf.

 

There were bookshelves here, too, although the books themselves seemed to be more average than Hermione had begun to expect of Malfoy Manor; largely novels and children's stories, with the occasional splash of non-fiction. Furniture dotted the room with careful carelessness to inspire socializing, and a piano rested against the back corner. Like something out of a Jane Austen novel, really.

 

She headed out into the hallway and found Narcissa bent over slightly, speaking to an elf, who nodded eagerly and disappeared with a _pop_ as Hermione approached.

 

The blonde straightened, and smiled at her, a little awkwardly. She knew how Hermione felt about house-elves, of course, although that hardly inspired her to do away with them. She had a _manor_ to upkeep, for Merlin's sake. “Let me show you the church,” she invited. “By the time I'm done with that and the Maple Suite, the room should be dust-free.”

 

With a flick of her fingers, Narcissa was heading down the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the hard-wood floors.

 

Everything, Hermione noticed, was wooden up here. It made the entire place feel a bit like a tree-house.

 

Except the 'church.'

 

The door to it was almost startling in its utter plainness. Just flat wood, and a knob. No carvings, no decoration. It also seemed smaller than the other doors, enough so that Draco would probably have to duck just a bit to get in. It opened to a dark, cool space, and as soon as Hermione crossed the threshold, she felt every single hair on her body stand on end.

 

Her sudden, sharp inhale echoed around the stone room. The room was a small, circular space, only twelve or so feet in diameter. There was a stone altar of some sort at the “front” of the room, on a dais, right in front of a stained glass window depicting a man on a rock, the ocean tossing below him and the sky crackling with lightning above. “Merlin?” Hermione whispered. Narcissa blinked at her, and she tilted her head towards the glass with her eyebrows raised in question.

 

The blonde looked up at the window, solemn. “No. Solomon, King of Kings.”

 

There were no other windows in the small space, although candles flickered around the perimeter of the room. Upon closer inspection, Hermione realized none of the wax was melting. As she looked at the stained glass, again, she felt awe rise up in her throat and threaten to choke her.

 

She could _feel_ the thrum of pure power that resonated in the room, and it both terrified and thrilled her. “Let's do the Maple Suite,” she whispered, wrenching her eyes away from the stained glass.

 

Narcissa preceded her out, and as soon as Hermione crossed the threshold into the very normal wooden hallway, she felt the thrum of power fall away all at once, leaving her feeling shaky and strangely emptied. She struggled to keep up with her mother-in-law, who seemed perfectly unaffected.

 

Until, that is, Narcissa reached the far end of the hallway, at the other end of the house, and reached out to rest her fingers on the knob. Hermione saw them trembling, a bit, and hell – she felt a little better, knowing she wasn't the only one.

 

“That's a hawthorn,” she observed, glad to notice that her voice was steady.

 

Narcissa paused in opening the door, lifting her hand to trace the tree carved into the door. “Yes,” she said, fondly.

 

“Like Draco's wand.”

 

“And mine,” Narcissa agreed, opening the door.

 

It was different from the suites down in the children's wing – the layout was more contained, like a full multi-bedroom apartment. She wondered if this was how the master suite was laid out. The main room was a communal one, apparently, for entertaining friends and the like; Hermione saw the usual scattering of furniture, the bookshelves, and the other indicators of a typical drawing room.

 

There were two bedrooms, one for the husband and one for the wife. Seeing Hermione's face, Narcissa reminded her, “This was quite a typical arrangement when this manor was built.”

 

“Is this how your bedroom is?”

 

She inclined her head. “Yes. We do share a bed most nights – his, usually – but it is _also_ nice to have the option _not_ to.”

 

Each bedroom had its own wardrobe, bathroom, and a small room that was most likely used for personal activities (the previous occupant of the wife's room used it as a sewing room, judging by the currents contents, although the husband's had a small and cozy study). Off the main drawing room, there was another little room that contained its own dining table, with eight chairs. A large window held an excellent view of the lake.

 

Pureblood houses were weird.

 

“Why the dining room?” Hermione asked, as they were leaving. She _had_ to ask, or not knowing would bother her forever. “The great-grand-parents don't like to go downstairs? Also, there are _eight_ chairs.”

 

Her mother-in-law lifted a hand in a soft shrug, the move effortlessly elegant, and led her back towards the solarium. “As I mentioned before, the top floor is traditionally a family-only space. There was a time when the Manor had several guests staying within it at all times, and often the elders didn't feel much like socializing to that degree. Small children would often join their great-grand-parents for an early dinner before bed when there was a party or ball.”

 

Hermione frowned at Narcissa's back. No, it still seemed weird. “Interesting.”

 

In their absence, the solarium had been completely cleared of any floating dust specks, and both their tea and the accompanying food had been laid out on one of the tables. “I meant to ask you earlier, how your fundraiser with Harry was coming along,” Hermione said, as she sat on the couch.

 

The blonde beamed. “Excellently. He is quite diligent in sparing time for me,” she added, looking mildly surprised. “I know how busy he is with his work and his family.”

 

Hermione laughed, softly. “Well, it's a cause very close to his heart.”

 

“I see that. I'm very glad you suggested we work together. We would like to have the fundraiser on December 20th. We presume that it being the holidays, people will be in a particularly _giving_ mood.” She picked up her teacup and sipped from it, crossing her ankles in a dainty way that made Hermione feel a bit like an overgrown troll. “You and Draco will come, of course?”

 

“Of course,” Hermione agreed, promptly. “I wouldn't miss it for anything.”

 

“I'll have to forbid you and Lucius from boring the other attendees with talk of the Ministry,” Narcissa warned her, her eyes narrowing. “I've never seen him quite this excited in years, you know.”

 

Blinking, she flushed a bit. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, he always hoped that Draco would be interested in following in his footsteps.” She sighed, setting down her teacup. “I could have warned him several years ago that Draco didn't have a political bone in his body, and honestly I do think he _knew_ , but he was disappointed all the same when Draco showed no interest in pursuing a Ministry-oriented calling. Although, I must personally admit to be quite relieved that Draco did find his passions. I worried that he would drift aimlessly forever.”

 

Hermione licked her lips, uncertain of how to respond. “Well, he's very talented at it,” she said, honestly. “I think he'll be quite renowned, actually, once he reaches his Mastery. Lucius _is_ proud of him, isn't he?”

 

Narcissa hesitated. “I don't know,” she admitted, delicately. “Malfoy men were not, historically, _scholars_.”

 

“Well, what's wrong with scholars?” Hermione demanded, hotly.

 

The blonde smiled, soft and wan. “Nothing,” she said, firmly. “But the Malfoy family has always been one that aspired to power, political or otherwise. Sometimes they sought magical power, and that made scholars of them, but the point was that they did not seek knowledge for the purity of knowledge's sake. It was always for a further purpose. I do not think Draco possesses that trait – that hunger. I don't think he aspires to any sort of power, except perhaps over himself.”

 

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Hermione huffed.

 

“Don't misunderstand,” Narcissa interrupted, before Hermione could go on one of her tangents. “ _I_ am quite proud of my son. Seeking power has ruined this family in more ways than I could begin to express.” Her voice quieted as she spoke, her eyes flicking away as they dimmed a bit. But she re-summoned her smile and met Hermione's gaze, again. “Besides, Lucius has you, now.”

 

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. “Me.”

 

“Of course. He has always desired a spiritual successor to teach all he has learned. He attempted, with Draco, but our son's lack of interest has always been apparent. I believe he is relieved to have you. Did you never stop to wonder why he did not vigorously oppose my choosing you to be betrothed to Draco?”

 

Brain stalling out a bit, Hermione just stared at her. “I always assumed he did,” she finally sputtered.

 

Narcissa shook her head. “He did not. I said that I wanted you for Draco, and he considered it for a moment and told me, 'That's acceptable.'”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, feeling the urge crawl over her to scream and throw her teacup somewhere. Why couldn't anyone in this _stupid_ family just be up-front about everything? Why let her believe that Lucius only begrudgingly accepted her? Why let her believe that the forced betrothal had been purely incidental? “This is the most frustrating family I've _ever_ met,” she finally snapped, scowling.

 

“Well, let no one say we do not inspire passions,” Narcissa drawled, taking a long sip of her tea.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Narcissa selected a gown for her and left her a house-elf to help her dress.

 

She was a little proud of herself for picking a hiding place that Draco wouldn't think to check, but in retrospect, she was feeling more and more guilty over running off. The more she thought about it, the more childish the act seemed. When she'd done it, it had seemed _necessary_ , in order to avoid Draco's endless probing and pushing.

 

Now, it just seemed a little like a tantrum.

 

Either way, she'd go home tonight. She'd apologize. She'd beg forgiveness.

 

She'd wonder endlessly if Draco resented her for being his 'replacement' in his father's grand plans to pass along his expertise. If he did, she supposed that might help explain some of why he didn't want her involved with his potion. She'd overshadowed him in school and now she was overshadowing him in his _own father's_ esteem?

 

Hermione had long ago thought that she'd hit her capacity for guilt, but now she discovered that _no_ , there was always room for more.

 

If it was true, she'd have to sever professional ties with Lucius. There was no way she could keep going on like they had been, knowing that Draco hated it. And it hurt to consider giving up such a valuable ally (not to mention one that actually believed in her ability to affect change, even if he didn't particularly agree with what she _wanted_ to change), but... well, she supposed there were more important things than trying to become recent history's youngest Minister for Magic.

 

Like her marriage, and true love, and all that _rot_.

 

She groaned, and the elf squeaked in surprise and began apologizing profusely. “No, no, it's okay, I'm just-- it was just something I was thinking about,” she hastened to reassure him. “Please, keep going, it's not too tight.”

 

In fact, it fit perfectly. As Hermione surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, taking in the glittering sweep of the bright, golden gown, she winced. It was bright and shining, like a beacon of pure sunlight. Narcissa had charmed her hair and the elf had done it up, delicate chains of gold draping across the up-do. The matching jewelry basically made her look like a walking advertisement for Goldsmiths.

 

She felt ridiculous.

 

“There is no way this isn't too much,” she sighed, but she grabbed the sheer golden shawl and left in it, anyway.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As it turned out, it really wasn't.

 

In fact, compared to some of the dresses she saw, what she was wearing was practically _understated_. There were women here with albino peacock feathers sprouting out of their collars, in hats big enough that she was _sure_ they were charmed to feel less heavy, and in dresses that were so massive that the women wearing them couldn't move without knocking into someone or something.

 

“Good _God_ ,” Hermione muttered, easing around a woman in a ballgown that took up the entire entryway.

 

“Oh, good, you're here, and you don't look terrible.” Fingers curled around her elbow as the cool voice cooed in her ear, and Hermione jolted in surprise and turned to face Pansy Parkinson. The woman was in a sleek black ensemble that made her look like a film noir vampire, a veil covering the top half of her face. “Although, gold? How predictable, Granger.”

 

Beside her, Daphne Greengrass wore a jewel-tone blue dress that made her eyes pop, her ruby-red lips curving into an amused smirk. “I like it,” she said. Her voice had changed as she grew older, becoming low and a little husky.

 

Hermione huffed a laugh. “Narcissa picked it, actually. Left to my own devices, I'd probably have shown up in a jumper,” she admitted, in a wry tone.

 

“Not a bad idea,” Daphne admitted. “It's a good way to draw attention to yourself.”

 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Not _everyone_ is trying to be the absolute center of attention, Daph. Some of us grow _weary_ of constantly being in the middle of a scene,” she scoffed. “Which is why we don't invite you out, anymore.”

 

“Your life would be insufferably boring without me,” Daphne retorted. She lifted her champagne glass towards Hermione. “Want something to drink?”

 

“Oh, yes, please,” Hermione sighed, and Daphne turned and headed towards the bar. Glancing at Pansy, she added, “You know, thanks for inviting me. This'll be nice.” And she could use a distraction.

 

Pansy nodded. “Of course. I just-- _what_ is Draco doing here?” she demanded, her eyes lifting to somewhere past Hermione as a scowl etched itself onto her face. “You invited him? What part of _Girl's Night_ did you _not_ understand? As fussy and high-strung as he is, he's still _very_ much a boy.”

 

“I didn't invite him,” Hermione assured her, turning. Draco was cutting through the crowd roughly, and certainly not dressed for a night out. He was just wearing his standard suit, and it looked a little bedraggled.

 

Also, there was a huge purple bruise on his face, surrounding a split lip.

 

Her jaw dropped open as he approached, his eyes thunderous. “Draco,” she gasped, horrified. “What happened to your _face_? Did someone hit you?”

 

“Nevermind,” he grit out. “Pansy, I need to borrow my wife.”

 

Pansy threw an arm around Hermione's shoulders, pulling her close. “Piss off. This is a man-free zone,” she growled. “Also, what are you trying to do, make her _puke_? Your face looks like the wrong end of a Skrewt.”

 

His eyes flashed dangerously, and his voice lowered in warning. “Pansy,” he hissed.

 

Hermione peeled Pansy's arm off of her. “It's okay,” she assured the dark-haired girl, blinking a little in astonishment at the raw hostility in the woman's face. Almost like she was being _protective_. “I'll just be a minute, alright, and then I'll come right back.”

 

“The play starts in ten minutes,” Pansy huffed, lifting her nose and turning away.

 

Nodding, Hermione grabbed Draco's arm and led him to an alcove. She cast a quick Silencing charm before she repeated, “ _What_ happened to your face?”

 

“ _Nevermind_ , I said,” Draco bit out. “Where were you all night?”

 

“George's,” Hermione sighed, pulling out her wand and reaching for his chin to steady it before she healed him. He wrenched it away angrily, and she stared at him. “I'm _trying_ to reduce the swelling, you knob. Come back here.”

 

“ _Why_ were you at _George's_?”

 

“I wanted to be alone!” Hermione huffed. “Hold _still_.”

 

He shook her hands off of him again, scowling ferociously. “Since _when_ does being with _George Weasley_ count as being _alone_?” he demanded.

 

“He wasn't _there_ , you dumb git. He was at the shop, staying in the spare bedroom!”

 

Draco blinked, her words penetrating the angry fog that surrounded him and instantly deflating most of his fury. “Oh,” he finally said, dumbly.

 

Unbelievable. “Can I heal you, now?” she asked, tartly. When he jerked an infinitesimal nod, she grabbed his chin, not feeling particularly bad when he winced. A few charms later, and the swelling had gone down considerably, the split in his lip almost entirely healed. “Unfortunately, your face is going to be that _charming_ purple color until you see a real Healer,” she muttered, annoyed. “Are you done being a prat?”

 

“ _Me_? Who leaves in the middle of the night without even saying anything?”

 

Hermione sighed, grimacing a bit. “You're right. I'm sorry,” she said, her voice softening a bit. “I should have told you where I was going. I was just worried that you were going to follow me and try to... talk about it.”

 

He glanced around and stepped forward, easing her deeper into the alcove. Her back came up against a wall, and his voice was half-shrouded in shadow as he said, softly, “That's what people are _supposed_ to do after they fight, Hermione.”

 

“Well, yes, but it doesn't have to happen _immediately_ , like you always want to. Sometimes I need time to wrap my head around things.”

 

Draco sighed through his nose. “So, just tell me that, then.”

 

“You and I both know you won't _listen_.”

 

“I have before, haven't I?” he pointed out, growing irritated. “I came to see you at the Ministry and you told me to wait until after work, and so I left and I _waited_. I don't _like_ waiting, Hermione, but I _will_ if you just _tell_ me to!”

 

She hesitated. That was true; he had waited. After a beat, she groaned, letting her head drop back against the wall as her eyes closed. Was she just being a big, unfair _brat_ , after all?

 

 _I hate being wrong!_ bounced around her head a few times.

 

“You're right,” she admitted, begrudgingly. Every word felt like it had to be yanked out of herself. “You did. I'm sorry. I was just-- I was wrong.”

 

He huffed, incredulous. “You sound just about the _least_ contrite I've ever heard you.”

 

“Take it, or leave it,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “That's _all_ you're getting.”

 

Draco stared at her, and she saw the corners of his lips twitch a bit. “Have I ever told you how charming I find you when you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that you're wrong?”

 

“Have I ever told you how enticing I find the notion of kicking you in the bollocks?”

 

“ _There_ she is,” he sighed, like a lovelorn schoolboy. “ _There's_ my annoying wife.” He leaned down to kiss her, and she stubbornly refused to kiss him back, keeping her arms firmly crossed. He chuckled against her lips, and said, “Careful, or I might persuade you so hard I end up ruining your hair.”

 

Making an irritated noise in her throat, she kissed him back, almost cursory. “ _There_.”

 

His hand folded around the side of her neck. She felt his thumb trace her jawline. “Hermione, you are brilliant and annoying and utterly, relentlessly ridiculous, and I love you. Come home, tonight.”

 

“I will,” she said, a little petulant.

 

“Good, we'll talk, then, alright? Not too soon for it, is it?”

 

Hermione groaned. “More? I thought we _just_ talked _,”_ she said, miserably. She really didn't want to have several _more_ revelations about what a tetchy bitch she was. Not in _one night_.

 

“We talked about you leaving and where you'd gone, not about the actual fight,” he corrected her. She scrunched up her face, and he kissed the tip of her nose. “I love you,” he repeated, pointedly, and stared at her while he waited.

 

“Ugh. I _love_ you,” she snapped, her scowl intensifying.

 

He smiled, rewarding her with another kiss, and said, “Enjoy your night. And don't you listen to a damn word Pansy Parkinson says about me.”

 

“We'll see. She's been known to make good points,” Hermione said, airily.

 

He'd been about to step away, but at her words, he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Like what?” he asked, suspicious.

 

“Like how you're fussy, and high-strung--”

 

“Oh, for Merlin's sake,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “By all means, if it _improves_ your mood, cling to your fabricated gossip. I could not care less--”

 

“--And bad in bed--”

 

“ _That's a lie_ ,” he hissed. He started to say more, and then stopped. “What am I doing, defending that to _you_ , of all people?” He took in her smirk and made an aggravated noise. “I'll see you tonight, you bint.”

 

“Git.”

 

“Swot.”

 

“Tosser.”

 

“ _Bye_ ,” he enunciated, loudly, and then he stepped through her Silencing charm and out into the crowd of people. Hermione pressed her lips together as the charm disintegrated, chewing on them to keep from laughing or smiling.

 

When she rejoined Pansy and Daphne, though, Pansy took one look at her and rolled her eyes. “So predictable,” she muttered, thrusting a full champagne glass in Hermione's direction.

 

Hermione took it, stifling a giggle.

 

“This is a man-free zone, and that includes your _thoughts_ , so wipe him out of your mind before I Obliviate you,” Pansy warned, in an arch tone, before striding towards the theater's entrance.

 

Eyes widening a bit, Hermione cast Daphne a questioning look.

 

Daphne lifted a hand to cover her mouth and stage-whispered, “Bad break-up.”

 

Recognition dawned on Hermione's face, and she nodded sagely as Pansy turned to glare flatly at the two of them. “Ahh, I see,” she said, putting on her best, solemnest face. “So, you're done with the male half of the breed entirely, you said?”

 

“ _Permanently_ ,” Pansy said, emphatically.

 

Daphne cocked her head. “I think I can hear all the men in the room quietly weeping,” she whispered, her eyes widening with wonder. She laughed when Pansy flicked her in the forehead. “Such a spoilsport.”

 

Hermione laughed as she followed them into the dark theater. Despite her reservations about this night, she was surprised to realize that she didn't really think it would be that bad.

 


	62. "Le Reve de Dragon"

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Two: “Le Reve de Dragon”**

 

…

 

The play was about a were-dragon, and it wasn't very good.

 

The main character was a man who'd been bitten by a dragon and was cursed to become a dragon every night of the full moon. He lived in fear of this 'curse' and tried to heal himself (failing), and then went on a journey that ended with him getting a loving wife and a boatload of self-acceptance. It was trite and very much over the top, but Hermione was surprised to see that everyone in the audience was thoroughly enjoying it.

 

Then again, there was so little in the way of entertainment in the Wizarding World; they had very little other plays to measure against this one. There was no basis for critique. She was pretty sure it was just a reason to go out and be _doing_ something.

 

Before the play began, she told Pansy and Daphne about her fight with Draco, mostly out of 'female solidarity.' They'd had a decent time talking it through, but as soon as the lights dimmed, Pansy and Daphne fell perfectly silent and Pansy even rudely shushed her when she leaned over to (quietly) ask a question.

 

“That was so good,” Daphne gushed as they spilled out into the street. Pansy nodded, and Hermione bit her tongue. “I loved the part where he had to hide his tail from his girlfriend in his apartment. So funny.” Around them, everyone was chattering excitedly about the play, after having just stood in that theater and giving it a standing ovation it _very much_ did not deserve.

 

Pansy eyed Hermione, growing a little suspicious about her _unusual_ quietness. “What'd you think?”

 

Hermione froze a bit. She was torn between her usual brutal honesty and a desire not to threaten the delicate building of what might actually be a _friendship_. “It was... very interesting,” she said, slowly.

 

The black-haired girl grabbed a slim, metal cigarillo case from her clutch. A cockatrice was emblazoned onto the front in jewel-toned mother-of-pearl. “That's code for 'bloody awful,'” she told Daphne, her eyes half-lidded.

 

“You didn't like it?” Daphne demanded, incredulously. “You didn't think it was romantic? And that ending! I thought you were _all about_ equal rights for human-ish monsters and whatnot.”

 

Grimacing a bit, Hermione shrugged. “It was... a little heavy-handed, I suppose.”

 

“Do you not like theater?”

 

“No! I love theater,” Hermione defended. “I suppose I'm just used to... Muggle theater, is all.”

 

Daphne frowned, her eyes widening. “Muggles have theater, too?”

 

Pansy laughed, the sound cackling and a little coarse. She took a draw of her little cigarette and shot Daphne a supercilious look. “Of course they do. Tons of it, actually. If a Muggle wants to go see a play, they have more than a hundred different options.” She caught the inquisitive glance Hermione shot her, and shifted her gaze away, shrugging nonchalantly. “Or so I've heard.”

 

“It's true,” Hermione said, slowly. “Muggles are very passionate about the performing arts. There's more than anyone can really see in a lifetime, between plays and films and all that.”

 

“And they're all better than ours, I suppose,” Daphne said, her lips pursing.

 

Hermione burst out laughing. “Oh, no. I'd say most of it is utterly awful, actually, but some of it is really quite good. The good ones make up for the rest. And the rest get... forgotten, I suppose.” Pansy turned and started to walk, and Daphne and Hermione automatically fell in behind her. “If something doesn't get very good reviews, then people just don't go see it.”

 

Daphne looked thoughtful, her bright blue eyes lingering sightlessly on Pansy's back. “Oh,” she murmured. “Is it normal to go to a Muggle theater in a _jumper_?”

 

“Depends on the theater. Some of them you dress up for, like this. Some of them are more casual, and nobody really cares what you're wearing. And then there are some that you dress up a _little_ for, but you don't really go all out.” Hermione stopped a bit when she realized that Pansy had stopped outside of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. She stared up at the big, animated sign, and laughed. “Don't tell me you _shop_ here, Parkinson?”

 

“No,” she said, scornfully. “But I've got a hunch about something.” She stepped in, the little bell dinging.

 

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and she shot Daphne a look. The woman shrugged back, rolling her eyes goodnaturedly, and followed Pansy inside. Huffing incredulously, Hermione hurried in after them, feeling a little self-conscious about what she was wearing, all of a sudden.

 

“Just a minute!” Ron yelled from the back, and then he was heading up front with some boxes in his arms. He blinked in surprise at the trio of women, a frown etching onto his face before his eyes finally found and registered Hermione. “Hermione?” he demanded, dropping the boxes on the counter. “Cor, I didn't even _recognize_ you in that get-up.”

 

“Yes, a sense of fashion is one of the many delightful things we intend to rub off on her,” Pansy drawled. She took another draw of her cigarette and leaned against the counter, blowing the smoke in his face.

 

Ron made a face and pulled out of the plume, shooting her an annoyed look. “Charming,” he observed. “No smoking in the shop, will you?”

 

Pansy shrugged and stubbed the cigarette out _right on the counter_.

 

Ron gave her a tight smirk, nodding a bit as he watched her grind the stub out against the wood. “Well, Hermione, thanks _ever so_ for bringing your new friends about,” he said, with a sarcastic sense of cheerfulness. “I trust they've been _potty-trained_. Since expecting them to act like actual people out in public is a little much, I'll just settle for not having to clean puddles of urine off the shop floor and call that a 'win.'”

 

“Poor Weasel. _So_ used to settling, aren't you?” Pansy sighed, giving him a pitying pout. “Speaking of _settling_ , I'm actually not here to see you. Where's that ugly giant freckle you call your brother?”

 

He put a hand over his heart. “Are you trying to imply I'm fitter than he is? Why, Parkinson, I'm so flattered--”

 

She laughed. “Of course not. Why do you think I added, 'that you call your brother'? I wanted you to know _which_ ugly freckle I was talking about, didn't I?”

 

“You know, you're lucky. No one has to waste any time specifying when they say, 'hey, who's the pug-faced bint?'”

 

“ _Ron_ ,” Hermione sighed.

 

Ron shot her a wounded look. “Are you _seriously_ trying to imply that she _did not start this_?”

 

“No, but I've a feeling that she's not going to be as receptive to my disappointed glares,” Hermione muttered, in a dry tone. Pansy shot her a smile and a wink, as if to confirm, and she rolled her eyes. “You're both so utterly immature that I'm embarrassed to be seen out with _either_ of you. Can you just go get George, please? I need to thank him, anyway, for letting me stay at his flat.”

 

That broke his stormy expression, and he snickered. “Oh, yeah, we all got the fun little treat of having Malfoy show up on our doorsteps demanding that you be dragged out of hiding. George!” he bellowed, up the stairs.

 

“ _What_!” George yelled back.

 

Ron made an annoyed noise. “ _Come here_!”

 

“ _Why_?”

 

“ _Because Her-- will you just come here_?” Ron yelled, throwing his hands up in irritation. “He's such a _lazy sod_. You practically have to go up there and levitate his bloody chair down the stairs.”

 

“That's not true,” George said, leaning over the bannister. He smiled when he saw Hermione, and hopped onto the railing, sliding down. “Granger! Come to snog me in thanks?” Hermione just stared at him, and his eyebrows lifted a bit. “That was _not_ a sincere invitation. Angelina will neuter me and disembowel you,” he clarified, stepping back a bit as she marched up to him.

 

Hermione pointed at his black eye. “ _Where_ did you get that?” she demanded.

 

Pansy cackled. “Ha!” she said, smug.

 

George shrugged a bit, grinning crookedly. “God, who knows. Some tosser comes into my shop and starts swinging, it's all a blur, really--”

 

She shoved her hands onto her hips. “You got into a _fight_ with Draco?”

 

He threw his hands up. “He swung _first_! It was self-defense, Granger, plain and simple.”

 

She shook her head as she struggled to process this information. Draco was a _wizard_ , and a Pureblooded one, at that. They did not generally just go outside and _brawl with people_. They had _wands_. “Wh-- wh-- Why!” she finally managed to get out, throwing her hands wide.

 

“It's so hard to remember _every little detail_ ,” George began, and Hermione's hands tightened into fists. He stepped behind the stair railing. “Alright, he came by looking for you and I told him you were at my flat and I _might_ have insinuated something frisky.”

 

Ron snickered, and Hermione turned on her heel to glare at him. He quickly turned it into a cough and said, “Oh, goodness gracious, why aren't all these products put up, yet?” Gathering up the boxes he'd brought out, he quickly disappeared towards the front of the shop.

 

Turning back to George, she sighed, “You are such a child.”

 

“Of course I am. I've built an empire on that distinction,” he said, gesturing around the shop. She seethed silently at him, and he grinned. “Besides, it was _so fun_ to watch little red splotches pop up on his ickle little cheeks--”

 

“Well, you've ruined his suit, and his face, so consider him initiated. You better be nicer to him from now on.” Rolling her eyes, she turned back to Pansy and Daphne, the former of which looked insufferably victorious and the latter of which was trying very _obviously_ not to laugh. “Alright, I'm going home while this is fresh so that I can tell him what an idiot he is.”

 

“I so love when I'm right,” Pansy sighed, pushing off the counter (leaving her cigarette butt behind) and heading for the door.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It was their last night at her parents'. They would be returning the next day, and she'd promised to use their car to pick them up at the airport. As she Flooed in, she smiled wanly at Draco, not looking forward to this discussion even _slightly_.

 

So she started with, “You punched George Weasley in the _eye_?”

 

Draco blinked, his ears turning a little pink as he scowled. “In my defense, I hate him,” he muttered, closing the book he was reading and setting it on the coffee table.

 

“Draco,” she sighed.

 

“No, no.” He held up a finger to indicate that she should wait, and then pointed it at her when she stopped talking. “ _This_ conversation does _not_ begin with how disappointed _you_ are in _me_. Absolutely not. I spent an entire day wondering where you were, trying to track you down all over Wizarding London, and getting punched in the face. We begin this conversation with _my_ disappointment.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “It's not a race--”

 

“Up-bup-bup!” he interrupted. “You're doing it _again_!”

 

Hermione glared at him, and issued a long, _drawn-out_ sigh. “Al _right_ ,” she groaned. “Come on, then. You're _very disappointed_ in me...” she prompted, gesturing at him to finish her sentence.

 

“Because you are a _brat_ ,” he said, contentedly.

 

“Do you feel better?”

 

“Much.”

 

She moved to stalk towards the kitchen, and he caught her around the waist and dragged her, shrieking, down to the couch. She kicked out a bit, and then squealed with she felt his fingers dig into her side. “Draco!” she _screeched_ , twisting in his arms. “No!”

 

He chuckled and relented, but gathered her in tightly again, his chin tucked against the crook of her neck.

 

“You _prat_ ,” she hissed, when she'd settled.

 

“Mm,” he agreed, kissing her neck. “Yes, I know.” He leaned back to smooth some of her hair out of the way before he curled his chin against the crook of her neck, again. “Now that you can't run and hide behind a cup of tea, let's talk about promises.”

 

She moaned in misery, dropping her head back. “I'm _sorry_ I broke my promise, alright?” He raised his knees on either side of her, squeezing his arms around her middle as he nuzzled against the soft patch of skin beneath her ear. She finally relaxed against him with another sigh. “I was just... I never get to share things like this with my friends. You know how they are, they're not... interested in that sort of stuff. I just got excited. I thought we could do it, together,” she added, plaintive.

 

“I know,” he murmured against her neck. He kissed the skin there, warmed by his breath, again. “I know.”

 

“Why can't I be involved?” she asked, her voice a soft whine.

 

He licked his lips, and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Because it's the first thing I've ever had that's _mine_.” His voice was quiet, and serious, and she was glad she was facing away from him, because she was _sure_ the misery would have shown on her face, making him feel guilt he shouldn't have to feel. “And I just want to keep it for myself for a little while.”

 

She inhaled, deeply, and let it out in a rush. “Alright,” she said, and winced at the utter dejection in her tone.

 

Draco released her, turning her around to face him. She knelt between his knees in that ridiculous, golden dress, and was mortified to realize that tears were prickling at her eyes. She blinked them away, rapidly. “Besides, you are so far behind the learning curve in this household in regards to Alchemy, it's actually quite stunning.” He pulled her against his chest, smiling.

 

“Shut up,” she muttered. His lips peppered kisses across her face.

 

He chuckled, and a thought hit her like a bolt of lightning. She straightened up, and blurted out, “So why don't you teach me?”

 

Falling silent, Draco stared at her, blankly. “What?”

 

“Teach me about Alchemy,” she prompted. “I want to learn, and to be able to speak about it like an equal to you, why not?”

 

He was still staring at her, shocked. “I'm not a professor, Hermione...”

 

“You'll probably end up one, after you've been made a Master,” she reminded him. “So why not practice? I'm a good student, _or so I've heard_.” She gestured to herself, her movements grand, as though showing off a car.

 

He shook his head a bit. “I don't know.”

 

“I want to share something with you,” she insisted. “You hate talking about my job, so that's out. You're not very interested in social justice, so _that's_ pretty much out. I can't _stand_ the idea of being in a relationship where all we have in common is sex and sarcasm.”

 

“Oh, for Merlin's-- That's _not_ all we have in common, we have plenty of discussions,” he argued, almost fondly. “You are so overdramatic. And I don't _hate_ talking about your job--”

 

“You find it boring,” she interrupted, bluntly.

 

He stopped short, wincing a bit. It wasn't _untrue_. He found politics to be ungodly boring; he couldn't fathom his father's interest in it and he couldn't really fathom hers, either. He looked at her for a good, long few seconds, sobering up a bit. “Alright,” he finally said, a bit hesitantly. “But don't--”

 

“Really?” she gasped, her face lighting up.

 

Draco sighed. “I was going to say, _don't get your hopes up_. I've never _taught_ anyone before, and I'm sure I'll find it _annoying_ and want to stop.” He scowled a bit when her excited expression didn't fade. “I'll _try_.”

 

He was going to say more, but she threw herself forward and kissed him so hard and for so long that he didn't quite get around to it.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

They were naked and covered in a sheen of sweat when she rolled towards him. “Draco?”

 

He startled a bit, coming out of his half-doze. Hermione wasn't the sort of person that was fond of talking afterwards; usually she passed out pretty much immediately. “Mm?” he hummed, his eyes closing again.

 

“Do you wish your father wasn't helping me?” she asked, softly.

 

 _That_ woke him up. “What?” he asked, squinting at her in abject confusion.

 

She was wringing the corner of the sheet in her hands, chewing on her lower lip anxiously. “I mean, him helping me with my career, do you-- does it bother you that he is?” she asked, fretfully.

 

“No,” he huffed, still bemused. “Why in the name of Merlin's beard would I care about _that?_ ”

 

“Your mother mentioned something to me today that just made me... start thinking about it,” she whispered. Draco gave the ceiling an incredulous look. His _mother_? How did this crazy woman manage to fit in a visit to his _mother_ during her _one_ morning 'on the run'? “About how your father wanted you to go into politics, and he sort of switched to me, I guess, when you didn't want to, and I was just-- I was worried that maybe you were resentful that he--”

 

He started chuckling, his eyes closing again. “You're worried about _that_?” he asked, incredulous. “Go back to sleep, Hermione.”

 

She sat up, and he sighed, resigning himself to waking back up. “Well,” she continued, turning to face him. He was immediately and promptly distracted by her bare chest. “I mean, you always looked up to your father, didn't you? Doesn't it bother you that he's helping me? It should be _you_ he's helping--”

 

“Except I don't _want_ to do that. A political, Ministry career? Are you out of your mind?” He laughed, reaching for her and tweaking a nipple. “I'm glad he's focusing his insane preoccupation with politics on someone else. He was driving me mad with that nonsense before you came along.” He wrapped his other arm around her back, pulling her down so he could close his teeth delicately around said nipple.

 

She gasped as he sucked, steadying herself with one hand planted on the bed and the other burying itself in his hair. “I just mean, if you wanted me to stop letting him help, I would, you only have to ask--”

 

“No,” he murmured against her breast. “My relationship with him is the best it's been in _years_ because of you.” He pulled her more firmly on top of him.

 

“Really?” Hermione sighed. “I don't mean to harp on, but--”

 

“Hermione, love, do me a favor and _please_ stop talking about my father for a few moments so that I can get hard.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“This conversation isn't over,” she gasped, coming down from her orgasm. She slumped against him, boneless.

 

He closed his hands over her arse and squeezed. “Should we shag again, then?”

 

“You can't,” she reminded him, sleepily.

 

Draco carefully rolled her off of him, and she stared at him, her eyes half-lidded. “You have my complete and freely given permission to continue letting my father groom you in his alabaster image,” he promised her, pushing her onto her back and leaning over her, nipping at the pulse on her throat.

 

“What are you doing?” she mumbled, as he shifted his mouth down, over her collarbones.

 

He nipped at her nipples on the way down, his hands squeezing her hips possessively as she arched her back against his mouth. “Exhausting you so I can sleep,” he growled against her skin, and dipped beneath the blanket. Hermione whimpered a bit as he settled between her thighs, locking onto her clit with precision and laving his tongue over it.

 

She was already sensitive, and it didn't take long. When she fell asleep, she felt him press against her back, and sighed a bit in relief, pressing back against him instinctively.

 

Only one night away from him and his oppressive body heat, and she was _awfully_ glad to be home.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“No, go to _contacts_ ,” she instructed, frantically splitting her gaze between him and the road. “Contacts-- Draco, I _know_ you know how to _read_ , go to the one that says 'contacts'!”

 

“How do I go to it?” he shot back, hotly. He was tapping the little screen, with little success.

 

“Use the _buttons_ , the little one below the word _contacts_ goes straight to--” She squawked as he lobbed her cell phone at her, scrambling to catch it as the car veered back and forth a bit. “Draco, for God's sake--”

 

He crossed his arms. “Why don't _you_ do it? It's your bloody thing.”

 

“I'm _driving_ , I can't talk on the phone and drive, it's dangerous, not to mention _highly_ illegal,” she grumbled, blindly thrusting the phone back in his direction. When he didn't grab it, she pushed it into whatever body part she could find. Probably his shoulder. “Draco, _take the phone_ and go into the contacts and dial my Mum before I _crash this car into the meridian_.”

 

She could _feel_ the intensity of his scowl as he yanked the phone away from her and squinted down at it. “Why do we have to 'dial' her? They know we're coming.”

 

“So I can figure out what gate they're coming from, you--” She cut herself off with a sharp inhale, planting both hands on the steering wheel and _willing_ herself to be calm. “Count to ten, count to ten,” she mumbled to herself. She put on her calmest, most even tone as she instructed: “Okay, press the button that says 'contacts.' _Please_. Then use the little arrows to go down and find 'Mum.' Then hit the center button in the middle of all the arrows.”

 

“Stop talking to me like I'm one of your dim-witted friends,” he snapped.

 

“I wouldn't dream of it, because even my _dim-witted friends_ know how to operate a phone,” she retorted, pulling off of the freeway towards the airport. “Did you find 'Mum,' yet?”

 

“Who are all these people?” he demanded. “You don't know this many people.”

 

“Oh, God, give me patience,” she whispered to herself, weaving around a particularly slow car. They were already ten minutes late, and she could only hope that her parents' flight had been delayed, or something.

 

The phone suddenly started ringing, and Draco yelped and dropped it _on the floor_.

 

“That's probably them! Get it! Get it!” she yelled, as he scrambled to catch it before it slid underneath the seat. She hit a little bump and it scooted right under his seat, and he groaned. “Draco, hurry up--!”

 

“Shut up! Will you _shut up_!” he bellowed back, folding himself in half to try and fumble for it.

 

His hands closed on it just as the ringing stopped.

 

“Oh, brilliant,” she grumbled, as he straightened up with the cell phone in his hand. “Well done.”

 

Draco glared at her, seething quietly in his seat for a moment before finally exploding, “I already _apologized_ , stop dragging me through the wringer. And we fixed the garage door _and_ the car, they won't even know what happened.”

 

“We're _late_ ,” she snapped back. “So unless you can wave your wand and undo _that_ , just be quiet and dial my sodding Mum back. Also, I _told you not to get in the car when I'm not there_.”

 

“I was just sitting!”

 

“You don't _just sit_ and the parking brake disengages!” The phone started ringing again. “Hit the green button!”

 

“Stop yelling,” he hissed, before pressing the green phone-shaped button.

 

She leaned towards him. “Mum? Draco, hit speaker. Hit the one that says 'speaker.' Mum?”

 

“--rmione?” Her mum's voice suddenly rang from the phone as he hit the button. “Where are you? We're outside but we don't see the car. You didn't get into an accident, did you?”

 

“No, no, we're on our way, we're almost there. We just got a little delayed this morning.”

 

“Did anything happen?” her mum asked, instantly worried. Hermione grimaced and shied away as Draco pushed it up towards her ear, probably trying to be helpful. “Is everyone alright?”

 

“Yes, Mum, we're fine, we're only a few minutes away. Which gate should we head to?”

 

“We flew the Royal Dutch Airlines. David, be careful with that, you're going to pull it right off the curb--” she chided, and Draco muttered something like _Oh so the nagging is hereditary_.

 

Hermione shot him a narrow, warning look. “We'll be there in a moment, Mum.”

 

She reached across and fumbled to hit the _hang up_ button.

 

They sat in stony silence for another thirty seconds before Draco spoke. “I was trying to be helpful and get the car ready for you.”

 

“Shut _up_. I only popped back in for a second, and what did I _specifically_ say when I ran back inside to grab my bag?” He was stubbornly silent for a beat, and she persisted: “ _Draco_.”

 

“Don't touch the car,” he muttered.

 

“ _Don't touch the car_ , I said,” she repeated, shrilly. “I suppose I have to blame myself for trusting you with a running vehicle, because of _course_ you can't follow even the simplest of instructions, and then you ran it _right into the_ \-- why didn't you at least put the bloody door up?”

 

She heard his clothes rustle a bit as he shrugged. “I thought it was automatic,” he mumbled, slouching in his seat a bit.

 

“I am _married_ to a _toddler_ ,” she bit out, pulling into the _arrivals_ lane.

 


	63. The Wolfsbane Conundrum

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Three: The Wolfsbane Conundrum**

 

…

 

Being back at the flat felt _strange_. The house had felt almost too large, at first, but then she'd gotten rather used to it – Draco disappearing into the office to play on the internet, her being able to recede upstairs to read. The yard. It was stupid, because she only braved the cold to sit on the porch just the once, but she kind of missed the yard.

 

She was lying on the couch, reading while Draco fussed about his potions bench. The sounds were simultaneously comforting and irritating; she liked listening to him work, but occasionally he'd make a too-loud noise, making her lose her place.

 

Sighing when he began chopping a hard, waxy herb – an activity that could _not_ be done quietly in _any_ universe – she put her book down. “Draco?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“What do you know about that 'church' in the Manor?” she asked, curiously.

 

He blinked, turning to shoot her a frown. “You saw that?”

 

“Your mum had tea with me in the solarium upstairs, she gave me a tour of the top floor.” He shrugged a bit, turning back to his potion and beginning to stir it. She saw his lips moving as he counted, and waited for him to finish before continuing. “It's actually quite lovely, up there. I liked the observatory. But that church, it's strange, isn't it?”

 

He tapped the excess liquid off his wand and set it on the bench. “Yes, it is,” he said, quietly. “Anyway, I don't know very much about it, personally, but one of the earlier Malfoys has a little journal on it in the library. His father built it, I think.”

 

“What's the point of it?”

 

Draco held up a finger to indicate he needed a minute, dumping in the last ingredient and watching the potion change color. Satisfied, he turned to face her, leaning his hip against the bench and folding his arms lazily. “Things were a bit more religious, back then. I do think it was sincerely meant to be a place of worship when it was built. From what I remember, the son – maybe the grandson, actually – ended up directing some nearby leylines to it. He was trying to use it as a base to perform weather magic.”

 

Hermione frowned, scoffing a bit. “Weather magic? But that's--”

 

“Not possible outside of microcosms, yes, I know,” he agreed. “And that's still true, these days, at least as far as I know. But I guess he wanted to see if he could use the space to amplify his power enough to finally be the first wizard to do it.”

 

Interesting. “Did he ever get close? Summon up a faint breeze, or anything?”

 

“No. Or, maybe. He died,” he added, shrugging again with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “They found his body in the church, his insides had been burnt up, like he'd been lit on fire from the inside. Well, _maybe_. I don't think journalism had an ethics code, back then. For all I know, he just fainted and hit his head. He's sort of told as a 'cautionary tale' to Malfoy children to respect the church and not use it as a playground, and all that. Not that they'd need to. I've _never_ met a child who _wanted_ to go into that creepy tower.”

 

Hermione's nose wrinkled. “So, what, the story is he amplified his magic so much that it turned him into crispy bacon?”

 

“Right. So no playing in the church,” he added, wagging a finger at her with a mockingly grave expression. “Because, as we all know, the prospect is _so appealing_.”

 

“I take it you didn't spend much time in there, then.”

 

“ _Merlin_ , no. When I was four or five, my father took me in there, once, to pay respect to Solomon, or whatever. Pretty sure I burst into tears. I refused to even go up to that floor until I was about nine. Frustrated my mother to no end, she loved having tea in the solarium.”

 

Chuckling, Hermione set her book down on the coffee table, feeling a pang of pity for tiny, crying Draco. “Poor thing. Maybe your father wanted to imbue you with more power.”

 

“Maybe he was sacrificing my soul to Solomon's legions of demons,” Draco drawled. She tsked, and he grinned. “Either way, I'm sure my sudden bursting into screaming sobs was a _fantastic_ disappointment for him. Mum was furious with him.”

 

“You still scared of it?”

 

He shook his head. “Now I understand that the creepy feeling is just the diverted leylines. Makes your hair stand up on end, doesn't it?” She nodded a bit, recalling the almost horrifying sensation of transcendence she'd felt in that little stone room. “But when you're a kid, it's just kind of how you imagine the stares of a thousand flesh-eating ghost zombies would feel like.”

 

“Yeah, I could see that,” she murmured, thoughtfully. “How's it going?”

 

Draco looked over his shoulder at the potion. “It needs to simmer for an hour before I add the aconite,” he said. “This is really bloody hard to make, Hermione. And the ingredients alone cost nearly forty Galleons. This is _not_ going to be affordable unless you can find someone willing to take a loss on producing it,” he added, more softly. “Between the ingredients and the labor, selling it at cost will take at least fifty-six Galleons – for _three_ goblets' worth.”

 

She swallowed, feeling her heart sink. “So... fifty-six, one hundred twelve... One hundred and thirty one Galleons for the full week,” she murmured, her mind churning. “That's too high.”

 

He fell silent, watching her. She could see the first glimmerings of sympathy in his expression, although it warred with his innate fear and hostility towards werewolves. She was glad that he'd agreed to help her start brewing, but he'd been right when he'd told her there was no way to make the potion cheap enough to provide to every werewolf in Britain. The wolfsbane being brewed and sold _right now_ was hardly sold at a massive profit, she realized.

 

“Unless we can get it subsidized,” she whispered.

 

Draco sighed, shaking his head. “You're mad if you think the _Ministry_ is going to subsidize wolfsbane,” he said. Even with the pity, his voice was stern. “How many werewolves were estimated to be living in England last year?”

 

She hesitated, already trying to do the math as she begrudgingly answered: “More than two thousand. It's hard to get actual estimates, though, because--”

 

He waved her excuse away. “Let's say two thousand, then, when we both know it's probably a lot more. You're asking the Ministry to _subsidize_ an industry that will _cost_ nearly three hundred _thousand_ Galleons a month. That's insanity, Hermione, they'll _never_ do it.” Draco watched as she frowned, defeat starting to bleed into her expression, and sighed, crossing the room to sit on the couch with her.

 

“There has to be a way,” she whispered. She let him turn her and pull her against his chest. “I just-- there _has_ to be.”

 

“If there is, you'll be the one to think of it,” he reminded her, in a dry tone.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“A hundred and thirty, at _cost_?” Harry demanded, incredulously. “They're being sold for only about two hundred, _now_.”

 

“I know. The cheapest apothecary sells it for one-seventy,” Hermione muttered. “I always-- I thought the profit margin was higher. But they're barely making _anything_ on it. Which makes me wonder, why does anyone even bother to brew it, at all?”

 

Looking at a loss, Harry folded his arms, pushing onto the back two legs of his desk chair as he considered it. “I don't know. Some don't. I always figured it was out of prejudice, but it really doesn't seem worth the effort, does it?” he asked, a little dully. “I mean, considering that most werewolves _aren't exactly_ eager to out themselves and they probably _aren't exactly_ flying off the shelves.”

 

Hermione slouched against the edge of his desk, swallowing a groan. “I can't believe how expensive it is,” she whispered.

 

Chewing on the insides of his lips thoughtfully, Harry narrowed his eyes a bit at her. “Well, okay. Let's break it down,” he said, in a brisk tone – what she'd come to think of as his 'Auror voice.' “Which ingredients are the most expensive?”

 

“Well, the aconite,” she said, and he nodded. It was a hard-to-find plant, these days, and was mostly gathered where it grew in the wild. Foraged plants were always a little pricier than ones that were grown in greenhouses. “And you need a _lot_ of it just to do one batch, and one batch is only three of the seven needed doses,” she continued. “I mean, is there even that much aconite being _grown_ in this country? For thousands of werewolves? If we have to import it, it's even worse, and what if we end up just extinguishing it altogether after ten years of ripping it up wherever it grows?”

 

“Can it be greenhoused?”

 

Hermione frowned. “I've never read anything that says it _can't_ be,” she said, slowly. “It thrives best under certain conditions, of course, but I'm not sure why no one's bothered trying to cultivate it.”

 

“Well, probably because there's no profit in it,” Harry pointed out. “So who do you know that's willing to devote acres and acres of greenhouses for non-profit aconite?”

 

Her face scrunched a bit. Because, obviously, _no one_. “The second one is Runespoor eggs,” she said. “You don't need a lot, one will get you through nearly five batches, but they're imports _and_ they're endangered, so Britain is only able to import a certain amount per year. There's a high demand because they're used in a lot of other potions.”

 

Harry inhaled slowly, and let it all out in a sigh as he scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I don't know, Hermione,” he murmured. “I don't know what to tell you. It just... it doesn't really seem feasible.”

 

“I can't give up on this. What _good_ will it be to get werewolves accepted if they all still turn into uncontrollable beasts once a month?” she said, despairingly. “I need them to be _hire_ -able. I need people to feel safe around them. Or else this has all been for _nothing_ and we're back exactly where we started.”

 

Frowning, Harry played with a piece of parchment on his desk. “That can't be right. Lucius Malfoy backed you on that proposal,” he said, pointedly. “And if there's one thing I've learned about that man in all these years, it's that he doesn't do _anything_ he thinks is pointless.”

 

She crossed her arms, scowling a bit. “Do you think he knows something I don't?”

 

“I think he knows _several hundred_ things you don't,” Harry drawled, lifting his eyebrows a bit as they shared a brief, humorless smirk. “And I hate to bring this up when you're getting along so swimmingly, but maybe... maybe he knows that what _you're_ trying to do is pointless. But it still plays into what _he's_ trying to do.” Hermione sobered, staring at him, and he grimaced and added, “I mean, Hermione, it is a Malfoy trying to advocate for werewolf rights. Even Draco was shocked. That... I don't know what that means, but it has to mean _something_.”

 

She suddenly felt like all the air was being squeezed out of her lungs. “You think he's playing me for a fool?” she asked, sharply.

 

“I don't know,” Harry said, quickly. “Hermione, I do not know, so don't jump to some conclusion about it. It's just a thought. He may have turned over a new leaf, but that doesn't exactly make a saint of him, you know. He'll _always_ be looking for a way to come out on top.”

 

Frowning, she crossed her arms, glaring at her shoes. “Let's go get lunch.”

 

“What? It's barely eleven,” he protested.

 

“I'm hungry, I didn't eat this morning,” she defended.

 

Harry scoffed. “Well, who's fault is that? That sounds like a _personal_ problem.”

 

“It's about to become an _interpersonal_ problem if you don't get up out of that chair,” she grit out, her eyes narrowing into warning slits.

 

Scowling, he stood. “Are you _sure_ you're not pregnant? I come to work to _escape_ Ginny's violent moodswings, you know. As my work-wife, you're obligated to be pleasant when my home-life is fraught with tension.”

 

“ _Fraught_?” Hermione laughed, loudly. “You've been shagging like bunnies. I think I've seen your children more times this month than _you_ have. By the way, we're up to _eighteen_ of the babysitting nights I owed you. I'm keeping a calendar of them all so you two can't weasel any more freebies out of me.”

 

He pushed her shoulder to shove her towards the corridor. “Those weren't freebies. We _earned_ those,” he corrected, smugly. “And I'm adding two more to your tab for making me eat so early.”

 

“You are _not_.”

 

“Consider it practice,” he said, in a bright tone. “God knows you need it. You have the motherly instincts of a hamster.” He waited a beat for a reaction, and when he didn't get one, he added, helpfully: “You know, because sometimes they eat their own--”

 

“I _understood_ ,” she said, crisply. “I was electing to ignore it, since your sense of humor seems to be _even less_ developed than your four-year old son's.”

 

Harry grinned, considering that a victory.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Before she left work, she penned a quick owl to Lucius Malfoy, with one word on it: _Lunch?_

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I presumed you meant today,” he drawled from the opening of her cubicle, the next day.

 

Hermione stifled a smile, finishing writing her sentence. It was not one of her passion projects – just a re-working of that thrice-damned troll treaty, again – but she just wanted the damn thing out of her inbox once and for all. “And people say you're not smart.”

 

A pause. “Who says that?” he asked, with a very carefully affected air of nonchalance.

 

“Oh, no one,” she answered, airily, well aware of how much that little dismissal would bother him. She finished and set her quill down, organizing her desk and standing with a smile. “Where to?”

 

He watched her grab her scarf and loop it around her neck. “You invited me,” he reminded her, a little testy over her comment.

 

“True,” she agreed, placidly. Her agreeableness caused his eyes to narrow in suspicion. Before he could rescind his point, she said, “I have just the place, as a matter of fact. My treat, and all. It's my favorite,” she added, her eyes widening innocently as Lucius' jaw set a bit. He wouldn't be able to bring himself to be impolite until he actually had an objection – which he would not have, she determined, until they were already there. “Let's go.”

 

Ten minutes later, she was tugging on his sleeve as he stood – obstinate and solid as stone – outside of a sandwich shop, his face set in a mulish glare. “I will not enter that place,” he growled, as she pulled on his sleeve again. “And this coat is worth more than your annual salary.”

 

She gave it another yank. “ _My_ treat, my choice.”

 

“No.”

 

She released his sleeve, grinding her teeth a bit. It shouldn't have been that hard to pull him around. Hell, she'd pushed Draco plenty and while he was heavy, it wasn't impossible. It was as though Lucius was made of pure _lead_.

 

Drawing herself up a bit, she sighed. “Fine. I have news, which I will happily relay to anyone inside the shop dining with me.”

 

With that, she turned on her heel and headed inside.

 

And Lucius, that _stubborn, ridiculous_ man, stood outside with a faint scowl on his face as she got in line. Folding her arms, she simply moved forward with the rest of the line, refusing to spare him so much as a glance. She was famished, anyway.

 

It wasn't until she was nearly to the front that he appeared at her elbow, emanating a quietly demonic aura of fury.

 

“Do you like turkey?” she asked, as though she hadn't spent ten minutes playing tug-of-war with his jacket just a bit ago. “Ham? Roast beef?” She cast him a glance when he didn't respond. “Roast beef, then. You seem like a roast beef kind of person. With cheese. Lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise, onions--”

 

“No onions,” he interrupted, his tone still flat.

 

She stifled a smile. She really wished she could take a picture of Lucius Malfoy _eating a sandwich_ and send it to all of her friends. “No onions,” she repeated, in as solemn a voice as she could manage, given the circumstances.

 

When the girl making the sandwiches – Sally, according to her nameplate – asked him what he wanted, he lifted his chin and gave her a withering glare. The friendly smile on her face took on an almost plastic-y quality as she waited, ever-patient. Nothing like the food industry to take all the threat out of Lucius Malfoy's bluster, Hermione supposed.

 

As the silence stretched on, Hermione rolled her eyes and ordered for him. “Honestly,” she hissed at him, disapproving.

 

Seeming satisfied that he'd caused her a small measure of embarrassment, he lifted the scarf from her neck. Blinking, she turned on her heel to watch him drift towards a table, making a big show of covering the seat of the chair with her scarf before sitting. “ _Wretched_ creature,” she muttered, turning back to the cashier to pay.

 

“Take your arse off my scarf,” she demanded, when she reached the table.

 

“Language,” he said, in a silky voice.

 

“Arse. Off. That goes near my _face_ , Lucius,” she complained, dropping his sandwich on the table and sliding into the chair opposite. “I'm going to have to _burn_ that, and now I'll be cold walking back.”

 

“I'd wager that the seat of my pants are far cleaner than this heap of rags you insist on calling a scarf.” He picked up his sandwich and gently peeled back the paper. “However, there _was_ some sort of dried substance on the seat that will likely render you unwilling to use the scarf ever again.”

 

“Git. I don't know where Narcissa went wrong with you two. She's so lovely.” She bit into her sandwich, watching him as he inspected his.

 

Finally, he leaned forward and took a bite. And God damn him if it wasn't the neatest, cleanest bite of a sandwich she had ever seen in her entire _freaking_ life. No mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth. No crumbs lingering on his lips or falling onto his shirt. How did he _do_ that? Did he disengage his jaw and propel it out of his body, like a shark?

 

As she silently fumed, he swallowed and remarked, “You have mustard on your chin.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“I'm certain. For the purposes of the mustard, though, a napkin might be a more fitting solution. What was the news?”

 

“I didn't have any. I just needed to lure you in.”

 

He rolled his eyes, but did not seem particularly surprised by this revelation.

 

They mostly ate in silence, if only because sandwiches weren't a particularly conversation-inducing food. Anything that wasn't eaten off a plate always felt like it had to be eaten quickly and with minimal distraction. Towards the end, she finally said, “Do you really believe in werewolf rights?”

 

“I never said I believed in werewolf rights,” he corrected. “I acknowledged that they were _limited_ as part of a political maneuver in the Dark Lord's campaign.”

 

“If you _don't_ believe in them, why'd you help me?”

 

Even his faint shrug was elegant, the slightest rolling of his shoulders. “I don't _disbelieve_ in them.”

 

She set down the end piece of her sandwich and used a napkin to scrub her mouth and chin. “Do you really think it's possible to integrate them?” she asked, softly.

 

“Anything is possible, Hermione.”

 

“I'm not interested in platitudes,” she snapped. “What do you really think?”

 

He blinked, slowly, surveying her with a sense of calculation. “It will not happen in my lifetime,” he predicted. “Nor yours.”

 

He hadn't said _never_ , but the comment hit her hard, all the same, making her throat constrict. It was something she'd always wanted to see for herself. She wanted to see that she'd _done some good_. Even if she was on her deathbed – even if it took that long. But to die without ever truly knowing what happened? “But eventually?”

 

“I don't know, and you won't, either,” he said, bluntly.

 

She swallowed past the bruised feeling in her throat. When she spoke, her voice was a little raspy. “Then how will I know that I've done the right thing?”

 

His eyebrows lifted, pointedly. “You won't.”

 

Hermione glared at him. There was a lot of anger, and she had to direct it _somewhere_. “You're such a comfort,” she bit out.

 

“Is that what you want from me? Empty comfort?”

 

Her face scrunched. “No,” she finally admitted, in a low mutter. He finished his sandwich and dusted his hands off. Sighing through her nose, she said, “Draco's been brewing wolfsbane. It costs too much. Even if we sold it at cost, no werewolf would be able to afford it.”

 

Lucius nodded. He'd known that.

 

“Why didn't you tell me?”

 

“You wouldn't have listened,” he said, in a dry tone. “You never believe what you're told. You always have to work it out yourself before you'll accept reality.”

 

She sucked in a breath. “How can we do it?” she finally asked, determination sparking in her eyes again. She wasn't going to give up until she'd tried _everything_. “How can we make it affordable and accessible? Subsidies?”

 

“The Ministry will not subsidize wolfsbane. It is not considered essential.”

 

“But--”

 

“The users of it are barely even citizens,” he said, harshly, shutting her up. “You have struck a tremendous victory by making bigotry against them illegal, by allowing them wands, by allowing them to enter society _at all_. If you try and put the cost of that on the Ministry, you run the risk of losing that victory entirely.”

 

She knew he was right, but it still hurt to hear. “What can I do, then?” she whispered. She'd picked up one of the paper napkins and was tearing it to shreds.

 

“Perhaps the potion can be made more affordable.”

 

Hermione shook her head, but then it slowed. Harry's words floated back through her mind – Lucius never said or did _anything_ without a purpose. He wouldn't have put an option in front of her for her to obsess over if he didn't think there was potential, there. After all, he wanted her to be Minister. Her eyes drifted back up to his face, taking in the sharp, handsome lines of it – the hooded eyes, always calculating, the windows to a brain that _never_ stopped moving.

 

“Why did you help me pass that proposal?” she asked, frowning. “You don't believe in the cause. You had no real reason to do it. So why?”

 

“It was the easiest and most straightforward path to obtaining your trust.”

 

Taken a little aback at how easily and bluntly he said it, Hermione just stared at him. After a beat, she spluttered, “What!”

 

“If you are going to be my protege, I can hardly spend the next ten years slowly winning you over,” he pointed out, rolling his eyes a little. “There is simply too much to be done. You wanted to pass the proposal, and with my assistance, you were able to – at which point you both realized that my assistance was invaluable and that we do not necessarily need to be in opposition to each other.”

 

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You are such a slimy little bug,” she said.

 

“Snake,” he corrected.

 

“Has it occurred to you or any other member of your family that I can be spoken to like a reasonable human being and don't necessarily have to have my emotional and psychological state toyed with in order to want to do the same things you do?”

 

Lucius stared at her for a beat, frowning. “Well, that doesn't seem very interesting,” he muttered, standing. He left both the sandwich wrappers on the table and her scarf on the chair. “Come along.”

 

Scowling, Hermione stood and pulled on her scarf. It got stuck to the chair a bit, and she made a horrified face when she saw a string of _something_ stretching between the fabric and the wood. Making a disgusted noise, she grabbed the garbage off the table and threw it (and her scarf) into the rubbish bin.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco was pacing in front of the Floo when she got home. She stopped short with a squeak as she nearly barreled into him. He held up a letter, his grin broad and breathless. “I got accepted. I start in January.”

 

Her eyes widened. “Real-- oh my God, Draco, congratulations!” Throwing her arms around him, she laughed. “Not that I had any doubt, of course. Although – I thought school started in September?”

 

Shrugging as he pulled back, he said, “Apparently the competition is a little rougher around that time. I opted to start in January.”

 

Chuckling, she slipped out of her jacket. “You would have gotten in, in September.”

 

“I like to hedge my bets.”

 

She hung her jacket up. “January. We'll have to hurry up and get your Portkey set up,” she murmured. “How often did you say you'd have to go?”

 

“Probably a few times a week. Very seldom overnight,” he assured her, the _tiniest_ bit smug.

 

“I wasn't worried about that,” she huffed.

 

She headed into the kitchen to mask the heat pooling in her cheeks, and his laughter followed her. “Yes, you were,” he accused, warmly. “You can't sleep without me, now, can you? All that fuss you kicked up--”

 

“I loathe sleeping with you. You're hot as blazes.”

 

“Does lying about it make you feel better?” he wondered, following her into the kitchen where she busied herself with the kettle. When she refused to answer, he leaned around her and pressed his lips against her too-warm cheek. “Should I start spending Mondays through Fridays in Egypt, then? Since you don't care.”

 

Hermione scowled at the kettle. “I didn't say I don't _care_ ,” she waffled. “I just wasn't particularly _worried_ \--”

 

“If you don't say that you like sleeping with me, I'm going to buy a flat there and only come home on weekends,” he threatened.

 

“Good, maybe I can get some reading done!”

 

“Alright--” He started to pull away, but she turned, yanking him back by his shirt. His smug grin lingered on his face as he lifted his eyebrows, waiting patiently. Hermione glared at him and mumbled something under her breath, and he lifted a few fingers to his ear. “I'm sorry? I didn't catch that one. Do you need a voice amplifying charm?”

 

“I like sleeping with you,” she grit out, her cheeks turning a brilliant pink. “As long as--”

 

“No modifiers,” he cut in, leaning in to give her a lingering, heated kiss. She bent back over the counter, feeling his hands running up her hips. “You like cuddling with me.” She grunted, grumpy, and he smiled into the kiss. “Say yes.”

 

“Yes,” she ground out. “Oh my God, you are insufferable.”

 

He nipped at her bottom lip as the kettle started to whistle. “Ginger-Lemon for me,” he said, kissing her hard again before turning and practically _skipping_ into the living room.

 

Petulant, she called, “Prat” after his retreating form, and only got laughter in return.

 


	64. The Famous Bat-Bogey Hex

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Four: The Famous Bat-Bogey Hex**

 

…

 

Hermione leaned against the window of the Headmistress' office. “When are they going to rebuild that bridge?” she asked. It hadn't been high enough on the list to merit rebuilding right after the battle, and still now it stood in ruins, the middle ripped apart over the ravine. Not that it had ever been in _good repair_ prior to the battle, really.

 

McGonagall doctored her tea. “The Board of Governors is considering using some money to finish tearing it down and rebuilding a new one. It's still being discussed.”

 

“What's the hold up?”

 

“Money, I suppose. They have some other things they'd like addressed, too, like sealing that chamber once and for all,” the older woman muttered. That was something she'd suggested _decades_ ago, not that anyone had ever listened to her (incredibly sensible) suggestions.

 

Hermione turned from the window, smiling as her favorite teacher handed her a cup of tea. “Thank you. Isn't there still donation money?”

 

“Oh, the post-War donations are drying up.” Seeing Hermione's frown, she added, “And that's perfectly normal. It's been a few years and people are hoping to let it fade from their minds. Do _not_ tell Mister Potter.” Her eyes narrowed as Hermione's face scrunched in guilt; she'd been considering doing just that. “He's given enough of his inheritance to rebuilding this school, and then some.”

 

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Hermione grinned wryly. “What about the Malfoys?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting briefly in a rare show of mischief.

 

McGonagall sent her a prim look. “ _Their_ money, I'll take.”

 

Hermione laughed, and saw the headmistress hide her smile behind her teacup. It'd been too long since she'd really caught up with her. It felt nice, actually, and she wasn't sure how many more years McGonagall would have on this planet. “Did you read my letter? About the wolfsbane.”

 

The woman nodded, thoughtfully. “I did. Of course, you're free to peruse the library, but I know that Professor Longbottom has been feeling a little lonely, lately. There aren't many teachers here his age.”

 

“I was planning to visit him,” she promised. “After this, actually. He has a class right now, right?”

 

“Third Years Ravenclaw and Slytherin,” McGonagall affirmed. “He's doing very interesting things in that greenhouse. I shouldn't be surprised if he has some ideas about your problem.”

 

Hermione nodded, slowly. “Did Professor Dumbledore have any wisdom about it?” Right now, the portrait of the man was dozing, his chin tucked against his chest as soft snores filled the room. His spectacles were slipping slowly down his nose as he slept.

 

“All he does is sleep, these days.” McGonagall sent the portrait a disapproving look. “I can't see how he tires himself out so frequently.”

 

Hermione snorted. “My grandpa slept pretty much constantly in his last five years,” she said, wryly. “Maybe being old is just exhausting all on its own.”

 

“He is a _painting_ ,” McGonagall snipped, her lips pursing, and Hermione found herself laughing again.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She approached the greenhouse, realizing with a sigh that class was still going on. Making a bit of a face, she slowed her steps, turning a bit at the door and trying to calculate how much longer the class had.

 

“Hermione!”

 

Startling a bit, she turned, summoning an awkward smile as Neville waved enthusiastically at her from the head of the class. Every student had twisted around to stare at her.

 

Neville approached the door, visibly excited. “Come on in! We're almost done. Class, you know Hermione Granger?” he added, with a hint of pride as he put his hand on her back and shooed her inside. “Say hullo!”

 

“Hullo,” the class intoned, regarding her with an equal mixture of curiosity and boredom.

 

She waved, her smile a little tight. “Hullo,” she said, nodding at all of them. This was the exact reason they tried to limit visiting Neville at Hogwarts to holidays. He couldn't get enough of showing off his wonderful, brave friends, and the obvious pride he had in them was a little embarrassing – especially when faced against a pack of teenagers, most of whom were either awed by their existence or painfully 'over' the whole war hero thing.

 

Neville beamed at her, his excitement practically vibrating out of his pores. “Anyway – before we end class, does anyone have any questions?”

 

About ten hands shot up, and the new Herbology professor stared at them. He'd never seen such an avid interest in his class material, before. Blinking, he nodded to a girl in a Ravenclaw tie, who looked at Hermione and asked, “Aren't you a Malfoy, now?”

 

Shocked, Hermione just stared at her for a beat before glancing at Neville, her eyes widening a bit. “Uh, yes,” she said.

 

“Are you pregnant, yet?”

 

Neville cut in as Hermione felt her cheeks heat a bit. “Ah, I meant questions about class, today,” he stuttered. “Don't interrogate Hermione, she's a guest, that's... not kind. Does... anyone have any questions about class?”

 

Slowly, the ten hands lowered.

 

Neville sighed a bit. “Dismissed,” he said, waving them towards the door with a sheepish smile. As they filed out, he grimaced at Hermione. “Sorry.”

 

She muttered, “Good God, I don't remember any of _us_ being that forward in third year.”

 

He shrugged. “New generation, new rules, I suppose.” He began to tidy up the greenhouse for the next class, and Hermione fell into line beside him, setting aside the third year projects and helping him pull out the seventh-year ones. “So what brings you around?”

 

“I have a sort of... plant problem,” she sighed. “I'm trying to figure out a cost-effective way to offer the Wolfsbane Potion to werewolves – at a price that's actually affordable.”

 

Neville whistled a bit, low. “That's going to be a tough sell,” he admitted.

 

She scowled. “I know. Do you know of any reason that aconite hasn't been properly cultivated? I mean, _can_ it be?”

 

He nodded. “Sure, but they're not as powerful for potions. They cultivate them in India,” he added. “But they're just using the flowers. They're popular for funeral arrangements, there. But they have less than half the potency when they're not struggling.”

 

Hermione frowned. “What if we recreated the 'struggle'? Grew them in rock, all that?”

 

“I don't know. They'd certainly be more annoying to raise,” he joked, with a shy, soft laugh. “But maybe that would help.”

 

Nodding absently, she finished putting the third-year projects on the shelves. “They cultivate them for funeral arrangements?” she finally said, as that particular comment finally penetrated. “That seems morbid, putting _poison_ everywhere for a funeral, doesn't it?”

 

He shrugged. “It's got ancient roots in tradition,” he explained. “They were used medicinally in Ayurveda medicine as a painkiller, fever reducer, digestif, that sort of thing. Treated, of course, so as to reduce the whole 'fatality' thing.”

 

“You know, I was reading up on alchemy recently, and did you know they used mercury for Ayurveda, too?” She shook her head a bit. “They thought they could _transcend_.”

 

“I mean, in the context of transcendence equaling _death_ , they're not _wrong_ ,” he pointed out, wincing.

 

She chuckled. “Poison sure was popular back then.” A thought occurred to her. “So they're mass-producing aconite in wizarding India, then? For funerals.”

 

He nodded. “Sure. I mean, if you just need the flowers, they're pretty easy to grow. They'll grow in the shade, and everything. You know – Indian aconite is more poisonous. I'm not sure if that means it's more powerful in terms of potions,” he admitted. “I'm no Potions Master. For all I know, the potion just becomes poison as soon as you stop using the native aconite to this country. No idea. _Just_ for clarity, there. But maybe there's something, there. If it _is_ more powerful, you could use less of it to achieve the same thing, right?”

 

She frowned. “How would we test it?” she muttered, raising her eyebrows.

 

His grimace intensified. “No comment or suggestion, there,” he said, raising his hands a bit in surrender.

 

Hermione gnawed on her lower lip, thinking. “Thanks,” she finally said. It was worth taking the sick day from work to do this. “Want me to hang around until lunch time? I've got to visit the library, anyhow. We can go to the Three Broomsticks.” She heard the chatter of approaching students – Seventh year Ravenclaws and Slytherins, Neville had told her – and vowed to get out of there before any of them had a chance to embarrass her.

 

He lit up like a Christmas tree. “That'd be great, Hermione! You know, it'd be really nice to have _one_ conversation with someone that isn't at least ten years my junior or senior, this year.”

 

“I know,” she said, laughing. “I promise I'll try to get up here, more. And I'll bug Harry, too.”

 

His smile widened, and his eyes drifted behind her. The chattering slowed as she straightened, turning to send the new wave of students a little wave. “Class, you know Hermione Granger?” he asked, gesturing grandly to her.

 

She grit her teeth behind the smile. _Damn you, Neville Longbottom_.

 

“Well, well, she certainly filled out nicely,” a young man in a Slytherin tie drawled, his eyes crawling from her toes up to her head. He made a kissy face when his eyes traveled across her chest, and his two mates grinned appreciatively.

 

Revolted, Hermione crossed her arms over her chest as Neville snapped, “Mr. Yaxley, just take your seat, please.”

 

The young man smirked and slid into his chair, winking at her. _Eugh_. “You know, now that we run in the same circles, maybe I'll see you at a ball, sometime,” he said, suggestively. “Lots of great shadowy corners to get lost in, at those.”

 

A Ravenclaw girl sent him an exhausted glare. “Can't you see that you're making her positively ill, Yaxley?”

 

He scowled. “Shut it, Peters,” he snapped, twisting in his seat to glare at her.

 

Neville leaned in and said, quietly, “They'll be fighting for at least five minutes. The dramatic tension between those two is absolutely ridiculous. I'll grab you from the library around noon, alright?”

 

She nodded, sending the remaining students a faint wave as she escaped.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Catching up with Neville really _had_ been nice. Once she'd gotten him turned onto the subject of aconite, it was impossible to shut him up, and she greedily lapped up whatever he knew about the subject – which was, admittedly, a lot. And he also seemed excited about her plans for the werewolves, congratulating her on her passed proposal in regards to their rights.

 

As they finished lunch, he swore that he'd be available to help her in any way he could – should she want it.

 

She hugged him, hard. He seemed surprised by the strength of it, but chuffed all the same, and returned it in equal measure. After she walked him back to school, she visited Hagrid – something she'd also put off for far too long – and in the end had spent the entire day at her old school.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Only you would play hooky from work to go to _school_ ,” Ginny groaned. “Have I taught you _nothing_ in all these years?”

 

Hermione made a show of thinking. “You know, you really _have_ taught me _absolutely nothing_ ,” she agreed, and earned a couch pillow to the face for her cheek. She caught it as it bounced off, her eyes drifting to where Draco was trying to teach James how to play Wizarding Chess. The four-year old seemed much more interested in watching the pieces clobber each other than learn about strategy, but he was almost shockingly patient with the boy.

 

“Besides, it was nice to catch up with Neville, although the _students_ these days are just _horrid_ ,” Hermione complained. “Speaking of which, Draco, the Yaxley family needs to be uninvited from all of Narcissa's soirees, because I'm pretty sure their son is going to try and grope me at one.”

 

Draco straightened. “Which son? The eldest?” he demanded, eyes narrowing a bit.

 

“Whoever's in seventh year,” Hermione said, shrugging. “I have no idea who the Yaxley children are.”

 

“What is with you and being so attractive to every Slytherin in existence?” Ginny wondered, aghast. “I swear, you're like _catnip_ to them.”

 

Hermione gaped at her. “You can't say it's some _trend_ when all you've got as evidence is Draco and some seventh-year little snot,” she gasped, offended.

 

Ginny raised a finger. “Zabini.”

 

“Might be lying,” Hermione defended.

 

She raised another finger, looking calm. “Goyle.”

 

“ _Ginny_. Gross!” she snapped. “Besides, he's with Romilda _Vane_ , or didn't you get that little notice?”

 

“No, she's right,” Draco said, absently, as he perused the board, trying to determine how to win without crushing a four-year old's spirit. “I told her that one. Ever since the Yule Ball, he fancied you.”

 

She felt her face contort in disgust. “I could have happily gone the rest of my life without knowing that,” she muttered.

 

“That's why I didn't tell you,” he said, with a hint of smugness. “I'm such a caring husband.”

 

Ginny raised a third finger. “Lucius Malfoy.”

 

“ _Ginny_ ,” Draco _and_ Hermione snapped, in perfect tandem. He'd raised his head and was glaring at his red-headed friend as he added, “That's not funny. It wasn't funny when you first said it, and it hasn't improved with age, so please don't _ever_ say it again.”

 

She waved his protest away. “Say what you want, _I_ think he's got a crush on her.”

 

Hermione closed her eyes with a ragged sigh. “Why must you be so _gross_?” she asked, plaintively. “Moving on. I don't like this conversation. Next. _Next_ ,” she said, louder, when Ginny tried to continue listing names.

 

Chortling, Ginny gave in to Albus' demands to be let down, and watched him toddle towards the chess board, his stubby little legs moving rapidly, as if that would help him stay upright. As he approached, he began to stumble over his own feet, and Draco didn't even glance up as he caught him, pulling him into his crossed legs as he continued to frown at the board.

 

Ginny whispered, “You know, it kind of pains me to admit it, but I think he's going to actually be a good father.”

 

“I can hear you,” Draco announced, flatly. “You are _two meters_ away.”

 

The redhead grinned, unabashed, and winked at Hermione. “Which is totally shocking, of course, given how inbred the Malfoys are.”

 

His lips pursed. “And yet I'm still a better specimen than anyone in _your_ family. I'd suggest you start inbreeding, yourself, but I'm a little worried the Weasley looks will stop _hinting_ at troglodytic tendencies and just become _entirely_ unbearable.” The couch pillow caught him in the back of his head, and he drawled, “Of course, the behavioral issues are too ingrained and can't be fixed.”

 

“Mummy, what's a trog-dyte?” James asked.

 

“Uncle Ron is a troglodyte,” Draco said, quickly, before anyone else could answer. “And if you tell him he is, he'll take you on a _broom ride_.”

 

James gasped in delight as Ginny threatened, “Draco Malfoy, do not make me get up off this couch and teach you a lesson about the famous Prewett temperament.”

 

“I'll just run to the Floo before your fat ar--” He cut a look towards James and amended: “ _Butt_ can get up off that thing. And once I'm in the Floo, I'll be home free. I don't think you can even fit, to be honest, it's a miracle you made it out the bedroom doo--” Ginny stood, and Draco bolted to his feet, holding Albus in front of himself like a shield.

 

“Draco, would you really hide behind a toddler?” Hermione scoffed.

 

Draco's eyebrows raised. “I'm sorry, have you _met_ me?”

 

“... Good point,” she agreed.

 

Ginny put her hands on her swollen waist, her eyes narrowed as she regarded Draco. “You know, you won't be able to hide behind my son forever,” she pointed out, sweetly. “And I've got a _very_ long-lived memory.”

 

“Hermione would never let you harm me,” he said, and shot his wife a betrayed glare when she snorted.

 

The redhead's smile was perfectly saccharine. “Retribution is coming,” she said, pointing at him. “When you've nearly forgotten your awful mistake, when you think _I've_ long since forgotten, I'm going to get you, and you're going to rue that little 'fat' comment for a long, long time.”

 

“I'm warding you out of the Manor.”

 

“You don't even live there,” she reminded him, calmly.

 

His eyes flicked to Hermione. “And the flat.”

 

“No,” Hermione drawled.

 

“You are supposed to be my _wife_ ,” he exclaimed. “Spouses are supposed to be _loyal_ \--”

 

“Dogs,” she interrupted. “You're thinking of dogs.”

 

Draco glared at her, then at Ginny. “I'm taking Albus hostage until you're dead,” he finally decided, hugging the toddler to his front. “He's ours, now.”

 

“Oh, yay,” Hermione chirped, brightening.

 

Ginny pointed at her. “No,” she commanded, like Hermione actually _was_ a misbehaving dog. “No. Down. Or I get the spray bottle.”

 

Hermione glowered at her and returned her attention to her book.

 

When Harry arrived home ten minutes later, Draco was cowering behind Albus as Ginny brandished a wand at the both of them. He surveyed the scene for a few seconds before striding over to Draco and plucking Albus free of him. “I've said it a thousand times. We do _not_ use each other as human shields in this family,” he said, in a disappointed tone, as Ginny caught Draco with the Bat Bogey Hex. Harry ducked, scowling. “Ginny! Not in the _house_. _Eugh_ \-- oh my God, Hermione, counter-hex, before it gets-- Oh _dear God--_ ”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“You could have at least stayed to help clean up,” Hermione chided as they entered the flat.

 

“Oh, so the curtains got a little snotty,” Draco snapped. “How do you think _I_ felt? They were _coming out_ of me. And my waistcoat got plenty ruined. I'd say we're about even.” He sniffed, rubbing at his nose irritably, and Hermione clamped her teeth down on the insides of her lips to keep from bursting into laughter. He caught her expression, though, and his scowl intensified. “I'm going to bed.”

 

“Don't put the waistcoat anywhere it can rub off,” she cautioned, gleefully, as he stalked off.

 

“What was that? Rub it on your side of the bed? Alright, if you insist.”

 

She glared at his retreating form as she headed into the kitchen to check if there was mail on the sill. “Draco Malfoy, don't you dare,” she warned. A quick glance told her that there was no owl post, and she fed Crookshanks and headed towards the bedroom. She didn't see the waistcoat anywhere, but assumed that he'd scourgified it.

 

As he slipped out of his shirt, she watched, grinning. He caught her look and scowled. “What?” he demanded.

 

“Want to practice?”

 

He undid his belt, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Practice what?”

 

“Baby-making,” she said, pulling her own blouse up over her head. When the shirt was off, he was staring at her, looking wistful.

 

“Or we could do it for real,” he murmured.

 

Hermione swallowed a sigh. “You know your father would kill me if I got knocked up this early in the game,” she said, softly. “It would really set us back if I had to take maternity leave. You know that.”

 

“Ugh. Since when does my father dictate that?” He was back to scowling.

 

“And I also want to wait,” she reminded him, gently, and he let out a gusty sigh. “Besides, with me going for Minister and you going for your Potions Mastery, we won't have the time to properly raise a child.” She shimmied out of her skirt and crawled onto the bed. “But, you know, practicing is still fun.”

 

He cocked an eyebrow. “True,” he agreed, thoughtfully.

 

Her grin returned, and she pulled him onto the bed by his wrist. “Did you want me to put my lipstick on, first?” she teased, her own eyebrows lifting briefly.

 

Draco groaned, already hardening. “Yes, damn you,” he hissed, and she giggled and ran to the bathroom. The last time she'd done that, he'd had to scrub to get the red ring off his cock, and while that had certainly been one of the more annoying things he'd ever had to do... It was still very much worth it.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I have been instructed to inform you,” Lucius said, a bit sourly, over lunch, “That I would never make designs to keep you from starting a family, should that be your desire.”

 

Hermione stared at him, shocked.

 

Then she smirked. “Narcissa?” she asked, innocently.

 

“Heard something rather unfortunate from _my son_ in regards to my edict regarding children,” Lucius drawled, his eyes narrowing. “Must you tell him everything I say precisely when I say it?”

 

“No, only when it inconveniences you,” she returned. “Besides, you know I'm not trying to get pregnant right now. So, _thank you_ for your permission, but it's currently unnecessary. So how mad was she?” she added, curiously.

 

His lips thinned. “I prefer not to say.”

 

Hermione's nose wrinkled in sympathy. “You sleeping on the couch?”

 

“ _No_ ,” he said, aghast at the very _notion_.

 

“So did she go back to _her_ room, then?” His grumpy silence was telling, and she made sympathetic noises, an exaggerated pout on her face.

 

Lucius glared at her. “You will cease.”

 

Cackling, she returned to her meal, satisfied to have ruined his day even slightly.

 


	65. Moksha

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Five: Moksha**

 

…

 

“I love bath products,” Susan sighed as she perused the shelves. Ginny already had her arms full of things she was planning to buy; being married to a zillionaire had certainly turned on her taste for shopping and the high life.

 

Turning to Hermione, Susan held up a candle. “What do you think of this?”

 

She _thought_ she was developing a headache from smelling all this stuff. But Hermione leaned in, sniffing delicately at the brown wax. “Chocolate?” she asked, quizzically.

 

“Mocha,” Susan corrected. “I love the smell of coffee.” She added it to the collection in her basket.

 

“Merlin, Susan, you've got mocha, pumpkin spice, tangerine dream – are you trying to make your house smell like Christmas dinner?” Ginny laughed, perusing the shelves. “Maybe there's a 'roast turkey' one you can add.”

 

“I'm not going to light them _all at once_ ,” Susan scoffed, giving Ginny a playful little shove.

 

Moments later, Susan was shoving another candle – purple – into Hermione's face. She gave it a dutiful sniff, and guessed, blandly: “Lavender?”

 

Giggling, Susan put the cap on. “Lilac. You are _really_ bad at guessing smells.”

 

Hermione blinked, staring at the candle as Susan put it back on the shelf. Indeed, the label did proclaim it to be lilac. She grabbed the candle again, ripping the cap off and giving it a deep inhale. “That's lilac?” she asked, dumbly. “It can't be.”

 

Ginny leaned over to smell it. “Oof. Yeah, that's lilac, alright,” she said, scrubbing her nose. “I went to the funeral of this great-aunt once, and they had them _all over_. Nearly got sick into the grave with the intensity of it.” She crinkled her nose at the memory and moved down the aisle, uncapping some lotion and pouring it into her hands to test it out.

 

“What's wrong?” Susan asked, peering at Hermione's dumbstruck face.

 

“It wasn't lilac,” Hermione muttered. It had been weeks since she'd smelled Draco's potion, but she _remembered_ the floral, crisp, almost citrus-y scent – and it wasn't this. She looked at Susan's bemused expression and repeated: “It _wasn't_ lilac.”

 

Susan squinted. “What wasn't?”

 

Shaking her head a bit, Hermione just murmured, “Nevermind. You're right, I'm... really bad at guessing smells.”

 

Her friend's head cocked a bit, and she looked ready to pursue a line of questioning before Ginny shouldered her way back into the conversation to announce, “I'm _dying_ of starvation. Let's hurry up and buy these so we can go eat.”

 

They both forgot Hermione's little episode rather promptly, but she didn't.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“It wasn't lilac,” Hermione announced as she barged through her own front door.

 

Draco stared up at her, blankly, from the couch. They both stared at each other, Hermione with her arms spread and waiting for a reaction. When it became clear that she wasn't intending to say anything else, he drawled, “I'm sorry, I'm going to need a little more than that.”

 

“The potion! Your alkahest,” Hermione reminded him, gesturing at the potions bench in the corner. He hadn't brewed anything else since the wolfsbane. “I wasn't smelling lilac. I was at a bath and body shop in Muggle London today and I smelled _every_ lilac-scented thing in that store – it's not the smell. It wasn't lilac.”

 

He blinked, and then squinted incredulously as he demanded, “How do you _not know_ what lilac smells like?”

 

She threw her hands up. “Oh, well, I'm _sorry_ if I don't keep a mental smell-bank of every flower that exists,” she snapped, a little defensive.

 

“Well, why'd you say lilac if you don't know what one smells like?”

 

“Because that's what you said it was supposed to smell like!” She shrugged, tearing her scarf off as she huffed with irritation. “It was floral, so I just sort of-- jumped to lilac, I suppose. I'm not a _perfumer_ , Draco.”

 

He rolled his eyes as he stood to fetch his notes, presumably to amend them. “Well, that's one mystery solved. It makes a lot more sense that everyone would smell something different,” he muttered, pulling the journals from the bookshelf. “I should have followed my instinct and made you go to a greenhouse to be sure.”

 

Hermione whirled, putting her hands on her cocked hips. “Excuse me? You assumed I didn't know what flowers smelled like?”

 

“Assumed _correctly_ ,” he said, his eyebrow lifting in a supercilious way she _really_ did not care for. “I mean, it's _common_ knowledge among my circles.” Her eyes narrowed just as he seemed to realize how badly that had come across. He closed his journal, moving in front of her as she turned to stalk into the kitchen. “That did not come out as I intended.”

 

“And how did you intend it?” she asked, coolly.

 

He caught her by the shoulder, turning her and stepping forward, making her back into the fridge. “That you're not like the people I know,” he said, lowly, leaning down to brush his lips across hers. “And that I'm increasingly grateful for that every day.”

 

Her lips pursed, but she could feel her irritation fading. “Good save.”

 

“I meant it,” he said, sincerely. “I don't expect someone like _you_ to carry information that openly worthless around in that gigantic brain of yours.”

 

Draco leaned in to kiss her, and she returned it, relaxing a bit.

 

When he pulled back, he asked, “If I got you some scented oils, do you think you could pick it out?”

 

“I don't know,” she admitted. “It's been a while since I smelled it.”

 

“I'll brew it again,” he promised. When she raised an eyebrow, he added, “The more information I have, the better. If I can pinpoint what you're smelling, maybe I can pinpoint _why_ you smell it.”

 

Shaking her head a bit, she said, “Alright, if you insist. What happened to the mouse, anyway?”

 

Draco shrugged as he leaned back from her, opening his journal again to make the notations. “The mouse is fine. No issues whatsoever, actually. I've had it taken to the vet about a thousand times, at this point, out of _guilt_ – because of you,” he said, sounding annoyed at the burden of empathy she'd placed on his shoulders. “Perfectly normal mouse.”

 

Smiling, Hermione turned towards the stove. “Good. I still don't want you touching it.”

 

“For Merlin's sake,” he muttered, stalking into the living room to fix his notes.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Did you send Parkinson an invitation?” Hermione asked Harry over lunch, the next day. Her invitation to Narcissa's war-relief fundraiser had arrived that morning. “Oh, and Daphne Greengrass.”

 

He raised his free hand, using his other to shovel lasagna into his mouth. “I'm not in charge of invitations,” he said, when he'd swallowed. “Socialite-stuff is strictly in Narcissa Malfoy's wheelhouse, you know that. All I did was help her figure out the actual specifics of where the money would go once it had been collected. I don't party-plan. That being said, I'm _sure_ they got invited. Their families have money, don't they?”

 

Hermione snorted. “Undoubtedly. But Parkinson's, er, somewhat _emancipated_ from her parents. So if they're invited, I'm not sure they'd extend it to her.”

 

“Emancipated? What for?”

 

Hesitating, she considered what to say. Draco had outlined Pansy's situation mostly vaguely, but even so, she got the impression that the woman didn't want her story being spread around to everyone else. “Well... I don't know all the details. Draco said that they were very nasty to her. And considering that the Manor was Voldemort's summer home for a spell, I shudder to think of what he considers as 'nasty.'”

 

Harry's chewing slowed a bit. “I had no idea,” he said, softly.

 

“I don't think she likes the idea of it being spread around,” Hermione admitted. “If you ask her directly, she just shrugs and says she likes to be on her own.”

 

His eyes narrowed. “You're telling me this in hopes I'll try and bring her into the flock, aren't you? You have become _such_ a Slytherin,” he accused, pointing his fork at her. “Has anyone told you that you _suck_ at manipulating?”

 

“I'm not trying to do that!” she defended, hotly. “All I wanted to do was make sure she was invited to the stupid party, you paranoid prat.”

 

Harry's eyes became slits as he regarded her, suspicious. Hermione's eyes widened incredulously, and he nodded, appeased. “Alright, I believe you,” he said, magnanimously. “That being said, maybe we should have her over for dinner, or something.”

 

“Oh, _thank_ you for believing me,” she huffed. “So _glad_ I've passed your little test.”

 

He shrugged. “It's not my fault you started consorting with the enemy.”

 

“It's not _mine either_ , technically,” she snipped. “In case you _forgot_ , there was a _law_.”

 

“Yeah, but you fell in love with him and that's not a requirement of the law,” Harry reminded her, pointedly. When she spluttered, he grinned. “Check, and mate. Invite her over for dinner this Friday. Ginny doesn't have a game and Draco might like having some of his own house around to be properly snarky with.”

 

“Like _you're_ not snarky,” she muttered. “Fine, I'll ask her. Will James and Albus be there?”

 

“Maybe. Actually, we should invite 'Dromeda and Teddy, too. Have a big night in. Maybe the rest of the Weasleys. I kind of hope George and Draco get into another fistfight, I missed the first one.”

 

“Do _not_ encourage them,” Hermione warned, her eyes flashing dangerously.

 

He raised his hands in surrender. “I didn't say I was going to provoke it! Just that if it _happened_ and I was lucky enough to be _in the room_ , I would not be _unsatisfied_ with that turn of events.” She continued to glare at him, and he couldn't help but laugh. “Like you don't kind of want to see that.”

 

“No, I don't!” She sort of did.

 

“You _liar_ ,” he exclaimed.

 

“I think fighting is silly and a pure waste of time.” She caught the look on his face and hastily added, “For _adults_.” She could tell that he was about to bring up the time she'd slapped Draco back at school.

 

He leaned forward to enunciate: “You. Are. A. _Massive_. Hypocrite.”

 

“Will you be quiet and eat your food?” She punctuated her ire by reaching forward with her own fork and stabbing his cookie, making it break into several pieces.

 

Harry gasped. “Hey!”

 

Smugly, Hermione put her hand protectively over her _own_ cookie and commanded, “Eat.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco started the potion, working meticulously on it for the week. It should be done by Sunday morning, by his calculations. The rest of the week was punctuated with lessons on alchemy, which Hermione thoroughly enjoyed. Despite Draco's reservations, he actually had a very deep wellspring of patience for teaching.

 

He didn't say as much, but she rather thought he enjoyed it, too, even when he was rolling his eyes in exasperation when she interrupted every forty seconds to ask a question.

 

She owled Pansy herself to invite her to Harry's; usually she left the owling to Draco, because Hercules was a _right bastard_ and always _bit her_ when she tried to give him a letter, but she felt that an invitation to Harry's would sound more sincere if it came from her. She endured several nips to her knuckles for her trouble and threatened (for the hundredth time) to put the owl on the bloody roof. She never followed through on the threat, and so Draco had long since stopped defending Hercules' manners.

 

Pansy accepted.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“And you'll be nice to her,” Hermione was telling Ron, pointing at him.

 

His jaw dropped. “Why are you pinpointing _me_?” he demanded, deeply insulted.

 

“Because you're the only one silly enough to rise to her baiting,” Hermione said, crisply, and Ron spluttered indignantly as he tried (and failed) to defend himself. As if on cue, the Floo lit up, and Pansy swept through the flames in a _cloak_ made of _peacock feathers_.

 

She blinked as she looked around at the homey living room. “Well, it's certainly changed, in here,” she observed, drily.

 

“Pans,” Draco drawled, and Hermione thought she could detect the faintest hint of _Lucius_ in his tone – the hidden, cold warning behind the lazy drawl. It was actually kind of a turn-on. “Nice to see you.”

 

He stood, helping her out of her cloak and hanging it up. Beneath the cloak, she was dressed to the absolute _nines_ , in a slinky blue dress and heels. If she noticed or cared that nobody else in the room was dressed quite so poshly – Draco excluded, although the group had gotten used to his penchant for suits, by now – she didn't indicate as much. “Thank you for having me,” she said, to Ginny.

 

Ginny smiled, a bit sharply. “Don't make me regret it,” she said, sweetly, and Harry shot her a disapproving look that she ignored.

 

James stumbled down the stairs, shouting, and Pansy jolted a bit. “Oh. There are children, here,” she said, in a faint tone. Hermione wasn't sure if she was simply surprised or if she didn't approve of their presence. When James made it to the base of the stairs, he ran straight for her.

 

“Hi!” he shouted, and Pansy stumbled back, but not quickly enough – he grabbed the skirt of her dress and tugged on it. “Hi.”

 

“... Hi,” she finally said, flatly, as she reached down and gingerly removed the delicate fabric from his sticky fingers. At the top of the stairs, Albus appeared, and began crawling backwards down the steps. Pansy forced a smile on her face. “Oh, there's two. Wonderful.”

 

Harry stood to pluck Albus off the stairs as he reached the bottom, smiling fondly at him. “There'll be three, actually. Auntie Tonks is bringing Teddy by.”

 

The smile was frozen on her face. “Delightful. I so _adore_ children,” she said, sounding a little strained.

 

Ron looked pleased at her obvious discomfort, and Hermione reached over and flicked his ear. He yelped and scowled at her, and she glared at him, her wordless threat apparent. Slouching in the couch, he did his best to look suitably chastised.

 

The Floo lit up, again, and Teddy walked through, prompting James to shriek _TEDDY_ and perforate _everyone's_ ear drums.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The 'kids table' had been set in the kitchen, in sight of the new dining room but away enough that conversation was actually possible. After the initial awkwardness, Pansy smoothly inserted herself into the social structure of the group as only a member of the Pureblooded elite could, effortlessly filling in the cracks with a few charming laughs and exceptionally-administered smalltalk. Hermione wondered if she'd ever be able to pull off anything like that.

 

She'd probably have to, sooner or later, if her political aspirations were going to go _anywhere_. She wouldn't be surprised if Lucius had some sort of smalltalk instructor lined up to teach her how to schmooze, actually.

 

Pansy, on her best behavior, apparently, asked if it was appropriate to smoke outside, and disappeared onto the front stoop to do so after dinner.

 

Hermione followed her.

 

“So that's your friends, is it?” Pansy drawled, taking a drag on the cigarette. “Boisterous group.”

 

“Mm,” Hermione agreed, leaning against the railing of the stairs. “You should come by dinner at the Burrow, sometime. It'll _redefine_ 'boisterous' for you.”

 

Pansy was quiet a moment. “Draco seems happy,” she said, softly. “With them, I mean. I knew he was happy with you.”

 

Startled by the observation, Hermione hesitated. “They like him a lot. He's part of the group, now. Even if we got divorced, I'm sure they'd still invite him everywhere. Ginny, in particular, _loves_ him. They're best friends, or something, now. I think they've bonded over being able to judge other people.” Pansy remained silent, and Hermione realized with a jolt that she'd probably considered _herself_ to be Draco's best friend – and she probably thought that _their_ bond was over judging other people.

 

Suddenly feeling like she'd put her foot in her mouth, Hermione fell silent, too.

 

“I suppose it was only a matter of time before he moved on,” Pansy murmured, her tone nonchalant and almost cold.

 

“It doesn't have to be like that. I mean, you got invited here, you know. You could move on _with_ him. It doesn't have to be about one of you leaving the other behind,” she responded, quietly. “I mean, if nothing else, you do seem to have a lot of fun getting on Ron's nerves.”

 

She cocked her head a bit in acknowledgment. “That _is_ fun,” she agreed, with a contented sigh. “I don't know, though. I don't think I'd fit in as well as you think. Draco's always been the more personable one.”

 

“Wow,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “If Draco's your measuring stick of friendliness, I'm _awful_ glad I never got sorted into Slytherin.”

 

Pansy chuckled, and Hermione took a shot and leaned over to pat her shoulder. The woman quieted at the gesture, but didn't stiffen or pull away, so Hermione considered that to be a bit of a victory. “Thanks for inviting me,” she finally said, in a rare moment of sincerity.

 

“We're glad to have you,” Hermione returned, firmly.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She sat on the couch in the playroom of the Manor, reading a book while Draco watched the potion, waiting for it to finish brewing. He'd also purchased a box filled with _over two hundred_ flower-scented oils. She had no idea where one could even purchase such a stupid thing. Who made it? Who _sold_ it? How much did it cost, and why were people _buying_ it?

 

Hermione had tried asking, but Draco had seemed confused by the questions. After all, why _wouldn't_ there be a bloody market for hundreds of flower-scented oils in tiny capsules?

 

Because _obviously_ there was a pressing need for it.

 

“Why was Indian alchemy so different from everywhere else?” she wondered, absently, as she read. The book had been 'required reading' for Draco's tutelage. It was about alchemical pursuits in Europe in the late 1200s, and everything they did was _drastically_ different from the Indian alchemical pursuits in the book Dumbledore's painting had suggested.

 

Draco glanced at her, pleased that she was taking her studies seriously. “Because on that part of the world, alchemy was more of a pursuit of spiritual transcendence, not the selfish grasping of immortality and riches,” he explained.

 

She put her finger in the book and closed it. She found that she liked hearing him explain things better than reading.

 

“On the Indian subcontinent, alchemy was used more for the purposes of medicine and _moksha_ , freedom from the cycle of reincarnation. Alchemy was a spiritual pursuit in other places, of course, but not quite as much as in India,” he added. “A lot of late European alchemists framed their studies in a spiritual way, but you can tell even from their accounts of it that they were mostly interested in finding a way to transmute gold or extend their actual, physical lives. I mean, you can insist that you're only trying to make gold because of the intellectual ramifications, but if that was the case, why not make copper out of other metals, or iron? Transmuting _anything_ would be impressive.”

 

“So India didn't care about gold?”

 

Draco hesitated. “No, they did. But not to the same extent. A lot of what they were pursuing had to do with their religious beliefs, and in the end, gold is nice but it's a material item that doesn't exactly pass into the next life _with_ you.”

 

Hermione chuckled. “Can you imagine if _that_ were possible? I mean, you may not achieve _moksha_ , but at least you can set yourself up nicely in the next life, right?”

 

“That _would_ be nice,” he agreed, smirking.

 

A few minutes passed in silence as she continued to read and he continued to watch the potion. Finally, he straightened, and said, “It's done. Come here.”

 

Glancing at the number of the page she was on, she closed her book and set it aside. She felt a twinge of apprehension as she approached the potion, although she wasn't sure why. She supposed she was just worried about not being able to identify the smell.

 

Leaning in, she took a whiff. Freshly turned dirt and definitely something floral. She smelled it again, trying to catalog it, and said, “Okay.”

 

Draco turned the oils over to her, and she began uncapping them and smelling them. The ones that bore no resemblance to the potion were quickly set aside, and the ones she was less sure about put in a smaller, but growing, pile. Whenever she felt like she couldn't remember the potion, she'd return to it and give it another deep inhale.

 

After an hour, though, she looked a little bemused as she moved the last vial into the _No_ pile. “It's none of these.”

 

“That's... highly unlikely,” he said, as gently as he could around his frustration. “Try again?”

 

“Draco, I'm telling you, it's none of these,” she insisted, but at his pleading look, she sighed and assembled all the vials again. She went slower, this time, taking nearly two hours, and by the end of it she had a headache from blasting her nose with all these scents.

 

But at the end, just like before, she set the last vial aside and shook her head.

 

“That's damn near impossible. Do you know how many flowers are in that thing?” he demanded. “Even if it's none of those specifically, it's bound to be a close relative. Which ones were closest?”

 

“I don't know. My nose feels like it's about to fall off my face,” she complained.

 

“Hermione, we only have three hours left of the potion. Please try again.” He began assembling the oil vials, looking a little desperate. “Just pick three or so that most closely resemble it. That's all I need to figure out which oils to buy.”

 

“It doesn't really resemble any of them that closely.” She sighed in exhaustion when he continued to assemble them, and moved back to the potion to lean over it. It sat there, a pale purple color. Hermione began to imagine that it was taunting her. “I hate you,” she told it, feeling a little silly as she frowned at it. It really was a colossal headache (literally and figuratively).

 

She felt something skitter over her foot, and screamed, jumping away from the sensation. The mouse squeaked in terror and fled to the corner of the room as she bumped the potions bench, hard.

 

Draco gasped in horror and tried to grab the bench and steady it before the potion spilled, and it ended up rocking back against her.

 

Hermione felt terror claw at her as the potion slopped over the cauldron's edge and doused her arm. She let out a choked scream as she stumbled away from it. Strangely, it didn't seem to burn, or anything. In fact, it felt pleasantly warm, and she felt herself collapse to the ground.

 

It should have hurt, hitting the ground. But it didn't. It was as if her body was _cushioned_ from all physical sensations.

 

“ _Hermione_!” She'd never heard Draco sound so openly terrified before, even during the Battle of Hogwarts. She registered this knowledge in a dim way, almost as though it were happening in a story, to fictional people. His pale, panicked expression swam into view, although she was having trouble focusing on him. She thought that she could feel him trying to shake her, and she knew her head was just flopping uselessly. He began screaming for someone – an elf, judging by the absolute ludicrousness of the name – and heard it pop into view.

 

Her vision was fading. Not to black, but to _white_. Hermione watched it happen with fascination, hearing him scream at the elf to get his father.

 

“Oh, Merlin, Hermione, stay with me,” he begged. He was scrubbing at her arm.

 

She stared at him blankly. She couldn't figure out why he was so upset; she felt perfectly fine. Peaceful, even. She just wanted to fade into that feeling forever. It seemed to cloak all of her limbs, making them feel heavier and heavier and heavier, a feeling of intense lethargy stealing over her. Then, she felt _light_ , impossibly light, like she was floating upwards into space.

 

Her vision clouded over in white, and she heard his agonized sob, and then she didn't hear anything.

 


	66. Samsara

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Six: Samsara**

 

…

 

Everything was white.

 

She didn't strain to see, because she saw no reason to. She felt perfectly at peace, waiting for whatever was going to happen to _happen_.

 

Slowly, the whiteness began to form into shapes, also white. A field of white grew out from her in all directions, the grass bending gently in a wind she couldn't feel. Looking around, Hermione turned, and saw mountains rising in the distance, also white. She wasn't sure how she could make out the individual shapes when everything was the same flat white color.

 

It was strange.

 

Hermione realized there was some indefinable quality with which she was discerning everything. Some _alternate dimension_ of perception that had nothing to do with the usual sense of sight.

 

“Where am I?” she whispered, or thought. She couldn't tell.

 

She wanted color, if only to better determine her location. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the world was colored. The brightness of it was startling, and beautiful, and she felt a tremendous sensation of joy fill her at the sight.

 

The grass was green, and dotted with purple flowers. _Aconite_ , she realized. She looked up at the mountains, but didn't recognize them.

 

The smell filtered in gradually, and she recognized it.

 

It was the potion.

 

“Aconite,” she repeated, forcing her suddenly heavy tongue to form the words. Her voice seemed to set a ripple through the scene, disturbing the silence with a sense of violence she instantly regretted. _Aconite_. The mystery smell was aconite.

 

Recalling that the smell of aconite could make one deathy ill, she threw a hand over her nose, a faint twinge of panic touching her heart.

 

Backing away, she turned and began running through the field, trying to hold her breath--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

\--She was in the playroom.

 

Eyes widening, Hermione pivoted, looking vainly for the field of flowers. It was nowhere to be seen. _Maybe the potion is a hallucinogenic_. Logically and scientifically, that was the only thing she could possibly conclude. Or that it was _toxic_ and death was stranger than she could have really imagined.

 

“Hermione.”

 

Draco's voice ripped through the playroom, and she saw the walls ripple with the force of it. It sounded like he was screaming at her underwater. He also sounded afraid. She wondered if his panic was penetrating this strange dream-death-world even in her unconscious state.

 

Cautiously, she turned, but the playroom was empty. Or, at least, it seemed to be. “Draco?”

 

She forced the words out, and the walls rippled again. She watched in horrified fascination as they seemed to disassemble themselves into the individual pieces of wood and then, in the ensuing silence, calmly put themselves back together again. There was no response, and she took a deep breath, and yelled: “ _Draco_!”

 

The walls exploded outwards, like the spores of a dandelion puff fleeing her breath. She choked on a scream and threw her arms over her head.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Lowering her arms, she stared as the blown-apart particles of the room slowly floated back towards her from the inky depths of what seemed like space. As slowly and calmly as the first time, they silently reassembled around her into the playroom.

 

It didn't look as though there were anything else here _but_ the playroom. She felt an existential sort of terror claw up her throat for the first time, and quickly moved to the door that was supposed to lead to her room. Her hand settled on the knob, and she stopped, suddenly scared witless that when she opened it, only yawning blackness would greet her. Maybe she really was dead.

 

She steeled herself and threw the door open, eyes closed, and then jumped through.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was scared to open her eyes.

 

She smelled food.

 

Cracking an eye open, she stared at the new scene in bewilderment, slowly opening the other eye. Grimmauld Place – Harry's kitchen. There was no one here, but she could see a pot on the stove. She moved over to it and looked inside, seeing some sort of stew. Looking around, she felt a twinge of worry and irritation when she realized no one was watching it. What if the house burned down?

 

She knew it was stupid, being that she was either dead or in a dream world, but she reached down and turned the dial. It was almost impossible to move, requiring a Herculean effort. She wasn't sure why she was still trying when it didn't turn immediately, but once she'd started, she found she couldn't stop. She needed to know if she _could._ Finally, it was turned, and the flame on the stove extinguished.

 

“What the hell?”

 

Hermione flinched a bit, looking around for the source of the noise. It had been a low, feminine mutter, barely audible with the strange underwater distortion effect... and as such, it barely even made the walls shift. _Ginny?_

 

The dial turned of its own volition, and the flame returned.

 

“Hell!” The gleeful cry was more violent than the first mutter, and Hermione cringed a bit as the kitchen shifted outwards a bit, some of the yawning blackness outside visible through a crack or two before the room came back together.

 

The feminine voice returned, stern: “James Sirius Potter, you will _not_ use that language!”

 

The voice was louder, chiding and Hermione struggled to stay still as the kitchen blew out once again, the pieces of it drifting about in space as the sentence concluded before slowly floating back into place. Swallowing, Hermione backed out of the kitchen, and stumbled through the door into the dining room.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

 _That was Ginny_.

 

Hermione blinked as the thought processed, followed shortly by a realization that she was _not_ in Harry's dining room. She was surrounded by stone, and she twisted around, dimly recognizing it as the Astronomy Tower.

 

She had to get out of here.

 

Panic twisted her insides again, and she started running, through the Astronomy Tower's lone door--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Through the bedroom of her own flat--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Through the Malfoy library--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Through the Three Broomsticks, the chatter here was so loud that the door had trouble staying put together as she threw herself through it--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Through her boss' office--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Through a room she didn't recognize, with foreign furnishings and _was that Chinese on the poster_?--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

A forest. The Forest of Dean? She didn't recognize anything in it. She ran, but there were no doors, here, so how was she supposed to know--

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The playroom.

 

Blinking, Hermione stopped. She realized she didn't even feel short of breath. As though she hadn't just sprinted madly through half a dozen different locations.

 

“Draco, you must move aside.” The low rumble was unmistakably Lucius, even with the faint underwater-y distortion. She saw the walls ripple and cringed. There was a couch against the corner that hadn't been there, before, and she felt a faint draw towards it. Instinctively, she felt an urge to run away from that pulling sensation, and backed away from the couch.

 

Until she heard her husband's voice.

 

“This is my fault.” He sounded viciously miserable, and she could almost summon the look of self-loathing that was probably painting his handsome face.

 

Lucius' voice was calm. And why shouldn't it be? He'd seen far too much to be rattled by a little death or coma or whatever this was. “You're blocking the healer, Draco. Step aside.”

 

“Don't touch me.”

 

“Draco, please.” Narcissa. Her voice was gentler, and the walls only bent out slightly from it.

 

There was a long stretch of silence, and Hermione looked around the room glumly. The potion was still on the bench, half-spilled. The vials of scented oils were scattered all over a nearby bench, half-organized from Draco's efforts before the accident. But the room looked completely unoccupied, as though it had been suddenly abandoned.

 

Save for the voices, there was no evidence of life _anywhere_.

 

She turned to try the door again.

 

“She's alive.” This voice was new, gruff. She couldn't tell if it was masculine or feminine. “Her breathing is shallow and her pulse is extremely slow, but she's alive.”

 

 _She's alive_.

 

“I'm alive,” she whispered, and saw the door in front of her ripple in warning at the noise. So she _was_ alive. Unless death was just strange and cruel and full of false hopes. Maybe this was hell. She turned away from the door and approached the potions bench, where the potion sat quietly simmering. She touched the cauldron, and it was still warm from the brewing.

 

If she was alive, she could interact with the world. It was hard, but she could do it.

 

She focused on the oil vial. It was small, so would it be easier? Reaching out, she settled her fingertips on it, but it was impossibly heavy, and too small to grasp. Grunting with effort, she tried to drag it to the edge of the table.

 

It moved slowly. She imagined it would be lightly scraping, if she could hear a damn thing.

 

“What in Merlin's...” Lucius' voice tore through the air, and he was speaking low, and yet it was somehow loud. Did that mean he was close? Straining, Hermione leaned all of her weight against the little vial (rose, according to the label). The disassembling and reassembling of the room barely even registered, anymore; Hermione ignored it as he continued: “Narcissa.”

 

She yanked again, and heard her mother-in-law: “Oh, my word.” Then, tentative: “Hermione?”

 

Hermione groaned a bit. What was she supposed to do? Spell out _yes_ with the vials? That was going to take a blue age, and the tug on her navel towards the couch was getting stronger and stronger. Thankfully, Lucius seemed to sense that issue, and she heard him say, “Move the lily vial.”

 

Stopping her efforts on the rose vial, she leaned over the table, hunting for the lily vial.

 

Finally, she found it, and threw all of her weight into yanking on it, a little worried that in the time it had taken her to find it, her parents-in-law would grow bored and leave. The lily vial was on top of a lavender one, and she successfully pulled it off.

 

“Merlin,” Narcissa whispered, sounding horrified even _with_ the distortion.

 

The tug on her navel was impossible to ignore. She could feel it tugging her towards the couch, and she wasn't sure what was going to happen when she got there. Would she die, once and for all? What was in the couch that so required her attention?

 

Fear drove her away, and she moved back towards one of the doors – the one to Draco's room, as it was furthest from the couch – and grabbed the knob.

 

She opened the door, and saw Draco's room beyond, although from experience she knew that she wouldn't be in his room once she'd stepped through. She could never remember the exact moment when the sight she saw through the door stopped being that and started being something else. This whole damn experience was confusing enough to merit its own essay, film, and then film novelization.

 

Hermione started through, and felt the tug on her navel lessen exponentially, almost disappearing.

 

Terror, base and instinctual, gripped her. Her mind was telling her that the tug could likely be ignored, but the reptilian, unevolved part of her was screaming at her to go to the couch, and _now_. Whatever was going to happen after that tug disappeared was nothing good.

 

Slowly, she backed away from the door and closed it.

 

She turned woodenly towards the couch and began moving towards it. She felt the tug behind her navel grow stronger with every step she took, filling her with an intense longing that almost made her feel ashamed.

 

“What is that?” _Draco_. He didn't even sound alarmed, just numb.

 

“Rubbing alcohol,” the new voice – the healer, she remembered – said, briskly. “We should ensure that all of the potion is off of her.”

 

The tug suddenly intensified, like a rope being pulled taut. Hermione knew with absolute certainty that if she didn't move towards it, the invisible rope would snap – and she wasn't sure which was a worse fate, what lay on the other end of that rope or being cast adrift from it. It pulled harder, and she stumbled forward, gasping at the intensity of the feeling.

 

Draco spoke again. “Did you get it all?”

 

“Hm. Not sure. _Tergeo_ \--” Hermione wondered why the healer hadn't just used that in the first place, but the thought didn't have time to fully form before the invisible tug snapped her forward, and she stumbled onto the couch with a startled shriek.

 

The shriek blew the world apart, and there was nothing but black.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She sucked in a breath – a real one, and it burned – as her eyes snapped open. A grizzled face hovered over her, and she screamed in surprise. The face flinched back, and in a dry tone, the healer said, “Well, I think she's up.”

 

“Hermione!” Draco scrambled forward, shouldering the healer out of the way.

 

Scrambling to sit up, Hermione twisted around to take in the room. Lucius and Narcissa were standing by the oil vials, Narcissa looking pale and rather spooked and Lucius looking grim. The couch she was laying on had clearly been transfigured from something else – it wasn't the couch that she'd been sitting on earlier, which was across the room. Perhaps in his panic he'd just transfigured a new one so that it would be closer.

 

Hermione sucked in breath after breath, until they stopped burning. She sat in shock as the healer ran a few more diagnostics over her with his wand, forced her to drink some sort of honey-sweet potion, and left.

 

That left her alone with her husband and the in-laws.

 

“Well, I suppose you did get that potion tested, after all,” Lucius finally said, breaking the silence.

 

Draco blinked, and slowly pivoted where he was crouched in front of her to glare at his father, incredulous. Narcissa mirrored his glare, and placed her pointy elbow right into his ribs, earning the faintest wince from the man.

 

Hermione stared at her father-in-law blankly for a moment, and then felt hysteria bubbling up, and soon she was laughing. And try as she might, she couldn't stop.

 

“Merlin,” Draco growled, as Narcissa's glare for her husband intensified ten-fold. He framed Hermione's face in his hands and surged forward, kissing her _hard_. She felt his teeth clink against hers, and the shock of that sensation made the laughter finally fade, and she felt her eyes close as a tear slipped from them.

 

She put her arms around his neck, locking them so he couldn't pull back even when the kiss was over. When he tried to pull back, she clung to him like a child, burying her face against his neck.

 

“Go,” Draco murmured.

 

“Are you sure that's wise?” Narcissa asked, gently.

 

His arms closed around her, and he slowly drew her to her own feet as he stood, holding her close. “I'll watch her. Go ahead.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The transfer from the playroom to Draco's bedroom – and his bed – was mostly a blur. They laid in silence for a long time, she wasn't sure _how_ long. Time seemed to pass weirdly after her experience. Draco seemed to respect her desire for quiet, and didn't break the silence as they laid there, wide awake.

 

She finally spoke, her voice quiet. “How long was I out?”

 

He frowned a bit. “About ten minutes,” he said, slowly. “How long did it feel like?”

 

“I don't know.” Two minutes and two days, both at once. But it didn't make sense, and she wasn't sure how to phrase it so that it _did_ , so she just left it at that.

 

He seemed to struggle with his next question. “What, exactly, do you remember?”

 

Blinking, she licked her lips. She could already feeling some of her memories fading, no longer crisp. She wondered if they would fade _entirely_ , given time. “It was-- I was in a field. I... then I ran, and I was in the playroom, and you were calling my name, and I left and I was at Harry's, then... I don't even remember,” she admitted. “Every time I left one place I ended up in another. The Ministry, Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, it was just... random.”

 

“Were you dreaming?” he asked, quietly.

 

She remembered how Lucius and Narcissa had been by the oil vials, when she'd woken up, and knew the answer to that question with cold certainty. “No.”

 

He fell silent, watching her face, and she watched his.

 

Then he said, “So, we know the potion is _safe_ \--”

 

“Don't you _fucking_ dare touch that fucking potion,” she snapped, pinching his side viciously. He cringed away from her, hissing in pain, and she followed up with another pinch as he slapped her hands away. He continued to roll away from her, and she followed, ending up straddled over him as he tried to catch her wrists.

 

When he finally did, she leaned down and kissed him, hard. He moaned into it, and she ground her hips into his.

 

The fear of almost-kind-of-dying made her a little desperate to experience _life_ again.

 

She was sure he wouldn't mind.

 

“Hermione, you're recovering--” he tried, before she rocked her hips against him more urgently, covering his mouth with hers so that he'd shut up. He made protesting noises once or twice more before his hands were sneaking up her shirt.

 

It was fast, and hard, and not particularly romantic. She felt a _lot_ better when it was done; more grounded. More _herself_.

 

The memories faded a little more, a little blurry at the edges.

 

Somehow, she didn't think she'd mourn their loss.

 


	67. Bottled Purple Death

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Seven: Bottled Purple Death**

 

…

 

“One second... One second... One second...” Draco was mumbling, even though she hadn't tried to start talking again since the first time he asked her to stop. He was scrambling to write her words down in his journal, his quill scratching along the parchment. “One second... Okay.”

 

Her eyebrows lifted, perfectly unamused. She was _exhausted_.

 

First, she'd told him everything, in as much detail as she could still remember. Shortly after, he'd interviewed his parents and Ginny, who confirmed the two interactions she'd had with the physical world. Finally, he'd cornered her again, looking faintly apologetic when he demanded that she go through it all just one more time so that he could write it down.

 

“Ready?” she asked, openly irritated.

 

He glanced up at her, swallowing as regret flickered across his face. “I'm sorry, Hermione, I know you hate this, but it's my research.”

 

“I told you what happened the first time, so I'm not sure why you're making me re-live it again.”

 

“For accuracy,” he said, softly. Pleading.

 

She softened with a faint roll of her eyes, and nodded. “Okay,” she said, softly. “So then I ran out of Harry's kitchen and I was suddenly in the Astronomy Tower. I didn't spend a lot of time there. I was panicking, so I ran out...” It took another hour to detail through everything.

 

Mostly because of the frequent stops for him to write down everything she was saying.

 

When it was finally done, she watched him pen the last sentence and fiddled with her empty mug. The tea had run dry nearly forty minutes prior, but he was putting off such an excited energy that she hadn't had it in her to demand a break to refresh the damn thing. “Theories?” she asked, tiredly.

 

“Yes,” he whispered, nodding. “A lot of them, but-- I need to sort them out, or something, they're all just sort of... jumbled up.”

 

Hermione gave a tired nod. “I'm getting more tea,” she said, assuming that he'd want to _sort them out_ by himself. He was probably already jealous that she got to experience the potion that he'd made.

 

She was surprised, then, when he followed her into the kitchen and continued to chatter, like an excited child.

 

“Did you know that in the early days of alchemy, when the Indian sub-continent first got involved, the alkahest was not defined as a solution that wore anything put into it down to its base parts – like it became after the Europeans took over,” he said. Hermione watched him as he paced around the kitchen table, not sure if he was actually looking for a response or just needed a sounding board for him to bounce his words off of. “Now, in classical terms, it's defined as a sort of base _salt_ , although that's kind of a misnomer, but either way the purported purpose of it is to render whatever metal you put inside into... well, the base. The building blocks through which you'd build any other metal.”

 

“Atoms,” she muttered, mostly to herself. She hated the lack of precision in wizarding language when it came to this stuff.

 

He ignored her, as he usually did when she said something that he knew was _Muggle_ and had no interest in trying to understand. He barreled on: “But, and few people know this, that isn't how it started. The alkahest was first sought for its medicinal and spiritual properties, and in the earliest texts its described as a _solvent_ , but in a much different context. The context of the mind, that is.”

 

Hermione found her mind flitting back to the book Dumbledore had suggested she borrow from the library. That old coot really _was_ a smart one. Not the most _trustworthy_ , but damned if she would ever call him an idiot.

 

Draco was still talking. “And it was said to be the means through which a person could send their spirit out of their body and into the spiritual world.”

 

She rubbed her face, grimacing. “Astral projection?” she demanded, a little incredulous at the irony. Of _all_ the stupid, new-agey _nonsense_ , really! It just _figured_ that no matter how hard she tried to escape the shackles of stuff like divination and feng shui and universal harmony, there was always something around to waltz into her life and ruin her every effort.

 

“That's right,” he said, grinning. “The means through which to achieve _moksha_ – by unfettering yourself from the material world and seeking enlightenment. Hermione, _I made the alkahest_. Rather, _a_ version of it.”

 

“Technically, some _bitter old hermit_ made it in 523, C.E.,” she muttered.

 

His arms circled her where she stood at the stove. “And I successfully brewed it from his piss-poor instructions. Don't you take the wind out of my sails,” he added, squeezing her a bit. “Don't you see how amazing this is?”

 

“Yes, of course,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt for not acting appropriately excited. She was just tired, she supposed.

 

He sighed and dropped his chin against her shoulder. “Still tired?”

 

“A little,” she admitted, turning in his arms to face him. “If I head to bed early, would you join me, or would you stay up until the wee hours of the morning obsessing over your potion?”

 

Draco stared at her for a beat. “What's the right answer to that?” he asked, squinting. When her expression started to turn murderous, he grinned, squeezing her to him. “I'm kidding. I'm kidding. Do _not_ get angry, I'm kidding,” he promised, peppering her face with kisses. “Are we going to bed, or _going to bed_?”

 

“We're going to bed,” she said, firmly, and watched him sigh a bit. Then she added, “And, in about two hours, we'll go to sleep.”

 

“Minx,” he accused, before _lifting_ her.

 

She squealed as he hooked his arm beneath her knees, kicking a bit. “Draco! Put me down,” she demanded, laughing, as she clung to his shoulder. “You're going to knock me into the doorframe!”

 

“You _insult_ me,” he huffed, sweeping her into the bedroom sideways. His turn after, though, caused her feet to kick the lamp onto the floor.

 

Hermione glared at him. “You were saying?”

 

“Your monstrous giraffe legs are my fault, now?” he exclaimed, incredulous, leaning away when she shrieked in protest and smacked his shoulder. “Let's face it, if your legs had been normal-sized, the lamp would still be in its proper place, and you wouldn't be spending the next two hours preoccupied with it while I shagged you lifeless and refused to let you pick it up.” He dropped her on the bed.

 

She gaped at him. “You _have_ to let me pick it up,” she said, starting to sit up.

 

Draco shoved her back down by the shoulders as he mounted the bed, throwing a knee over her. “Is that so?” he purred, his eyebrows bouncing as he regarded her. “Oh, it's going to _kill_ you,” he added, with relish. Leaning down, he began kissing up her neck, counting the seconds she could managed to stay silent.

 

Because of course she'd want to prove him wrong and stay quiet as long as possible.

 

It turned out to be _nine_. Nine seconds. “Draco, Crooks is going to turn it on and it'll start a fire,” she wheedled, craning her head back to give him better access to her neck.

 

“As long as we can agree to save Hercules first in the event of an emergency,” he murmured, dragging his teeth over her earlobes.

 

“My _arse_ ,” she huffed, and he grinned against her neck.

 

Slowly, he pressed a heated kiss against her jaw. “I love you,” he breathed, reverently.

 

She bit her lower lip, trying to stifle her pleased smile. “That's nice.” She gasped when he nipped her, in warning. “What? It _is_ nice,” she teased, running her fingers through his hair. She moaned miserably when he pulled back.

 

“You want one last chance?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows pointedly as he looked down at her.

 

Her nose wrinkled delicately. “Has anyone ever told you how awfully needy you are?”

 

“Several times,” he said. He settled his elbows on either side of her head, and settled his weight against her, the promise of his arousal pressing into her. “Remember when we were first getting along, and I teased you on your couch until you were ready to kill me?”

 

Hermione swallowed a laugh. “Yes.”

 

He chuckled. “That'll be _nothing_ compared to what I'll do if you don't return my verbal declaration of love.”

 

She lifted her legs to lock them around his waist. “Are you threatening me?”

 

“That's right.”

 

“I'll drive you crazy before you drive _me_ crazy,” she predicted, her eyes narrowing. “You're an impatient little sod.”

 

“Mm. Normally, I would agree,” he said, slowly, brushing a curl from her face. “However, when it comes to things I _dearly_ want, you'll be surprised by how patient I can prove myself to be.” He ground his hips into her, smirking a bit when she gasped and bit back a moan. When she stayed stubbornly silent, he leaned to the side and slipped a hand between them.

 

It traveled up her skirt and skimmed over her panties, and she arched her back a bit into it. “When the words come, your release does,” he said, running them over her through the thin cotton.

 

She tossed her head back. “Oh, come on,” she whined.

 

He shifted the panties aside, scraping his nails over her lightly, and she hissed on the inhale. She swallowed a moan when he brushed his thumb over her clit, trying to wriggle a bit beneath him to deepen the sensation. He pulled his thumb back a bit when she tried, and she huffed and glared at him.

 

He stared at her, innocently. “I believe I made my expectations clear.”

 

“You're a bastard.”

 

“My pedigree is _flawless_ , actually.” He continued to tease her, watching her face as she struggled to stay strong. Slowly, he lowered his head back to her neck, pressing lazy kisses there and playing with her ear again as he wound even lazier circles around her clit. Just enough to heat her up; nothing to provide satisfaction.

 

She knew he was counting the minutes. She lasted four. “ _God_ , I love you,” she hissed, arching her back into him. “Will you _get on with it,_ already?”

 

Chuckling into her neck, he inserted a couple of fingers. His finger-fucking was just as lazy as his teasing had been, but it was still an upgrade, so she didn't complain. When she started to wriggle and whine, he sped up, watching her face with rapt attention as he pushed her closer and closer.

 

Feeling self conscious, she gasped, “You're a voyeur.”

 

She'd hoped it would prompt him to shift his gaze elsewhere, but he just smirked. “Yeah,” he agreed, speeding up again and rendering her incapable of speech for a moment. She'd always sort of wondered what she looked like when she came, not that she'd ever consent to being video-taped or anything of the nature. Whatever she looked like, Draco seemed to enjoy it thoroughly.

 

“And a sadist,” she moaned, when her orgasm began to fade away and his fingers didn't stop. She jolted a bit, keening, unable to move much thanks to his body pinning her.

 

He ran his teeth along her neck. “Sadists deliver pain,” he corrected, in a perfectly _mild_ tone, like he wasn't up to his wrists in her. “Do it again, for me, Hermione. I'm thinking 'three.' What are you thinking?”

 

“I'm thinking I'm going to kick you when you let me up,” she gasped, her eyes nearly rolling into the back of her head.

 

“'Four' should keep you from being able to move with any accuracy,” he murmured, and she was going to say something scathing in response, but he pulled another orgasm out of her and whatever she'd been about to say got lost to it.

 

By the third one, she was all but sobbing with pleasure, weakly trying to free herself from the overload. It was weird, really: how could a body want something so badly and still feel such an instinctive need to shy away from it? Although, as far as fetishes went, _forced orgasms_ was hardly the worst thing Draco Malfoy could have come up with.

 

She finished the third and moaned in misery. “I can't,” she whined, her voice breathy. “I really can't.”

 

He kissed her, slow and lingering, and she groaned into his mouth. Her nails were digging into his shoulders so hard, it was a wonder he wasn't bleeding. “You can,” he promised her, his own voice a little breathless. He no longer sounded perfectly collected, which gave her a perverse sense of satisfaction. In fact, he sounded strained, like he was struggling not to come into his boxers. “You can, you can. Merlin, Hermione, you're so beautiful,” he whispered, reverently.

 

She doubted it; she could feel herself sweating from the exertion. But finally her struggles stopped and she tightened with a fourth climax, much weaker than the previous three, and all but collapsed beneath him. “No more,” she pleaded, and dropped her head back against the bed with a sigh of relief when she felt his fingers retreat.

 

With a shift, though, she felt the tip of his cock line up, and she moaned again. He slid in slowly, enjoying the way her expression changed when he did. He could still feel her gently pulsing around him.

 

She moaned like a cat in heat the entire time he pumped into her, moving as slowly as he could to prolong the experience – prolong his watching of her. There was nothing like it, he didn't think. Nothing like the pure rush of _power_ he felt when the slightest movement of his cock inside of her made her shake and groan, her face so unguarded thanks to her exhaustion and heightened sensitivity. _So fucking beautiful_.

 

Try as he might, he couldn't hold out for as long as he really wanted to, and he sped up towards the end just to hear her moans turn more frantic and gasping.

 

He gently rolled off of her when he was done, pulling her with him and wrapping his arms possessively around her.

 

“You are so hot,” she complained, although she didn't move a muscle.

 

“Love you,” he repeated.

 

This time, she didn't hesitate, pressing her face into his collarbone. “Love you.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Do you think it causes adverse effects in unborn children?” Ginny was asking. She hadn't stopped asking questions about Hermione's experience with the potion, utterly fascinated by the tale – and Hermione's interference with her stove. Honestly, it made the bushy-haired witch a little uncomfortable, Ginny's obvious excitement. She and Draco really were well-matched, as friends.

 

Frowning, Hermione said, firmly, “Almost _certainly_.”

 

“We don't know,” Draco corrected, shooting Hermione a mild glare. She didn't miss the fact that he'd said 'we,' and stifled a bit of a smile, before he noticed.

 

“Woah. Stop,” Harry said, holding his hand out to block Ginny's dizzying grin. He slowly molded his hand to her face, and said, voice stern: “Go ahead and wipe that look off your face, because you're not getting within forty kilometers of Draco's Bottled Purple Death.”

 

“She didn't _die_ ,” the blond exclaimed, exasperated.

 

Ron pointed at him. “Yeah, but, from the sounds of the story, it kinda sounds like you _thought_ she might. At first.” Beside him, Susan nodded, sagely.

 

Draco hesitated. “But she _didn't_ , though. So the potion's probably safe.”

 

“Mm,” Susan hummed, squinting a bit. “I mean, technically all you know is that _that specific amount_ doesn't kill a person of Hermione's exact height, weight, and general health-slash-life experiences. An ounce more or less and she could be in a coma, right?”

 

“Thank you for your unerring loyalty to reason, Susan,” Harry said, pulling his hand off his wife's face with a grimace when Ginny licked his palm. He wiped the spit off of on her shoulder.

 

The redhead, freed, leaned across the table excitedly, her growing belly limiting the lunge just a bit. The dominos they'd been laying across the table scattered a bit, and Ron protested and set about fixing them, fussily. “ _But_ how did people traditionally find out those things? By testing it. On themselves. On other people. Willing people, obviously,” she added, hurriedly, catching Hermione's frown. “So really, the best course of action is to keep testing, so we can all know what it really _does_.”

 

“True,” Ron murmured, and Harry and Hermione shot him twin, betrayed stares. He quailed a bit, and said, defensively, “Well, she's not _wrong_!” He watched them purse their lips, their expressions almost hilariously identical, and rolled his eyes. “Okay, that's it. You two, separate, you're giving me a headache.”

 

“If you're going to test it on people, it should be on willing participants,” Hermione said, tersely. “ _Unpaid_ ones.”

 

Draco grumbled; this was obviously a repeat argument for the two of them. “We have to offer _incentives_ so that people will want to try,” he pointed out.

 

“You have to offer incentives so that people will _gamble with their lives_. It places a very unfair bias on those less economically gifted than _you_ ,” she snapped, scowling a bit. “I doubt very much that I'll see any of your Pureblooded friends lining up to try Bottled Purple Death.”

 

“ _Stop calling it that_. It sounds ridiculous,” he growled back. He was a little worried that it would _catch on._

 

“You know who'd be willing to guinea pig for free?” Ron said, suddenly. “George and Lee. They'd do it just for the giggles. Though, with Lee, you'd have to convince Katie, too, and good _luck,_ there.”

 

Ginny nodded. “George would definitely do it. Lee might do it without telling her, and risk her wrath later. Hell, all you'd have to say is Bottled Purple Death--” Draco groaned, and she continued, blithely, “-- And he'd probably sign up then and there.”

 

Hermione glared at them both in open disgust. “Quit auctioning off your friends and _brothers_ for this insanity. Honestly, I've half a mind to tell your mother just what you're trying to do, here.”

 

“Woah!” the Weasley kids said, in unison, both of them raising their hands in pre-emptive defense, their faces identical masks of outrage. Ron was the one that continued: “You do _not_ invoke The Mother. That's rule number one of the Weasley clan.”

 

“Right before 'keep it in the family,' I'd wager,” Draco muttered, and Ginny punched him in the shoulder.

 

“We're on _your side_ ,” she reminded him, eyes narrowed. “In any case, we forgot one thing: George hates you and probably won't want to help you, for all the Galleons in the world. Because he thinks you beat Hermione.”

 

“ _What_?!”

 

“Or something,” she sighed, with a dismissive wave.

 

“No 'or something'! That is not something you add ' _or something_ ' to!” Draco exclaimed, his nose wrinkling. He turned to Hermione. “Were you aware of this?”

 

Her eyebrows lifted. “Him hating you, or him thinking you abuse me?” His lips thinned dangerously, and she stifled a laugh. “Okay, okay, Mr. Touchy. No, I've never heard him say he thinks you _beat_ me. But he does hate you. I do know that. See?” She beamed at him. “I can be helpful.”

 

“Yes, that was _so_ helpful,” he drawled, his tone slightly icy. “You've clarified a great deal.”

 

“I'll ask him,” Ron offered, snickering a bit at the reminder. “I can probably frame it in a way that makes it sound like he's doing you a disservice.”

 

Harry snorted. “You? You have all the subtlety of a thousand Howlers. Let Ginny do it.”

 

“It's your turn,” Susan added.

 

Ron played a domino. “I can be subtle. I've been subtle plenty of times. Maybe I was being _so_ subtle that you missed it.” Harry snorted again, disbelieving. “Then again, if George finds out he's been played, I'd rather lay that blame on Ginny's doorstep, so, fine by me.”

 

His sister shrugged. “I'll just mention casually that it was your idea. You realize I've been doing that for _years,_ right? Why do you think you're such a favorite target?”

 

Susan played a domino as Ron gaped at Ginny, struggling to form the proper words to encompass the seething indignity of it all. “You--! I protected you all those times!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “I got grounded for you _twice_!”

 

“All gestures _very much appreciated_ ,” she said, saccharine, as Hermione and Draco took their turns. She laid her last one down. “Also, I win.”

 

Ron picked up his last piece and flung it at her, and within seconds they were both pointing wands at each other. Hermione and Draco casually leaned aside while Susan and Harry both wrestled the wands out of their respective spouses' hands. The tousle lasted for approximately ten seconds before the two _responsible_ spouses had taken custody of the slim pieces of wood, and Hermione and Draco leaned back, both of them neatly filing their remaining dominos to replace in the box.

 

An outsider may have thought it all looked rather choreographed. Hermione was beginning to think maybe they'd just all spent way too much time together.

 

“That's it, forget George, I nominate _Ginny_ for Bottled Purple Death,” Ron declared.

 

Draco slammed his hand on the table. “The next person to call it that _gets jinxed_.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Lucius had promised to unlock one of the cabinets in the library for a book she'd been yearning to get at. As he took his sweet time, Narcissa kept her company in the seating area of the library, before the fireplace, chatting idly about the upcoming fundraiser.

 

During a lull in the conversation, Hermione glanced around. “Have you read a lot of these?”

 

“Goodness, no,” Narcissa scoffed, her eyes flicking up towards the shelves. “Most of them are ancient nonsense. The information's 'no good,' anymore, as they say.” Hermione wasn't sure that was a saying. Like, at all. “But the Malfoys don't keep them for the accuracy.”

 

“The history, then?”

 

“The prestige,” the blonde corrected, with a wry smile. “Of course, Lucius has combed through just about every one, and I think even Draco has glanced through the sections that held his interest. My personal library is more of the _modern, completely up-dated_ variety.”

 

Hermione slipped her shoes off, curling up in her chair. She saw Narcissa's eyes flicker down, and felt a moment of self-consciousness, but the woman didn't say anything about it. “Where do you keep them?”

 

“My rooms. Lucius won't let them near here, as they do not fit the aesthetic,” Narcissa said, her voice dropping into a teasing undertone. She smiled when Hermione giggled. “I suppose if I acquiesced to getting them bound up in dragonhide and gold, he might consider giving them a tiny, distant corner. However, as I am the one reading them, I can hardly find fault with their current location.”

 

Smiling, Hermione agreed, “I'd probably want mine in my rooms, too.” Catching Narcissa's speculative look, she hastily added, “If I lived here.”

 

“You could,” Narcissa reminded her, quietly.

 

She found herself fidgeting with her skirts, and forced her hands to be still. “I know,” she said, gently. “I'd just feel so... removed, I suppose. I love being able to walk out my front door and be on the street, walk to the cafe near me...”

 

“That's what Floos are for, darling.”

 

“Besides,” Hermione added, eyebrows lifting. “Since Draco and I are married, don't we technically kick you out of _your_ rooms? I doubt Lucius would go for that.”

 

Narcissa smothered a smile. “Technically. But it occurred to me that you rather liked the Maple Suite upstairs,” she said, in a carefully nonchalant tone. Hermione wondered just how much of that little tour had been designed to pique her interest. Probably the entire thing. “The entire floor could be yours, and it has its own operational Floo. You could even entertain.”

 

“I see what you're doing,” Hermione accused, her eyes narrowing a bit – but it was in a friendly way.

 

“What?” her mother-in-law asked, innocently.

 

Hermione burst out laughing. “I _see what you're doing_. That was really un-subtle, for you, you know. That was almost as bad as if _I_ had done it.”

 

She shrugged, delicately. “Sometimes I get excited over prospects and my knack for subtlety abandons me,” she admitted. “I know Draco is enjoying his distance from us, for now, but I hope you will consider the top floor as a serious contender when you begin your family.” The faint note of pleading in her tone tugged on Hermione's heartstrings, as she'd probably known it would.

 

She knew, after all, how dearly Narcissa desired grandchildren. “I will definitely consider it,” she promised. It was an easy promise to make.

 

Hermione _had_ really liked the top floor, after all.

 


	68. A Scorpius By Any Other Name

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Eight: A Scorpius By Any Other Name**

 

…

 

“I'm not naming my child Scorpius,” she said, in a firm tone, gently wedging the spatula underneath the pancake.

 

The last week had gone by so quickly. Work was a maelstrom, as usual, but with Lucius helping her situate herself to take that new position in the DMLE, she was a bit more pressed than usual during office hours. It turned out that the man he was hoping she'd replace was retiring earlier than expected, and was planning to be out by the end of January.

 

That didn't give her a lot of time. It was already early December.

 

“Why not?” Draco demanded. “It's a perfectly fitting name. It's a _family_ name, so it's traditional, it satisfies Mother's constellation fixation-- add blueberries,” he added, when she made to flip the pancake plain.

 

Sighing loudly, Hermione begrudgingly moved to the fridge to grab the little plastic box of blueberries, shooting him a dirty look. “You might have said that to begin with.”

 

“I thought blueberries was a _standard_ around here. We do still have those, right?”

 

“I'm _not_ naming any child of _mine_ Scorpius,” she repeated, quickly dumping some blueberries into the batter and flipping the pancake. “You can take your 'standards' and stuff them.”

 

He leaned back in the chair, and she bit down the urge to tell him to quit it before he killed himself or, _even worse_ , scuffed up her floor. “Why?”

 

“Because it's _revolting_ ,” she exclaimed. The last pancake was sticking, and she grit her teeth as she tried to gently wedge the spatula underneath it. This stupid griddle was on its last legs. “It is the most perfectly horrid name I've _ever_ heard. If you're so attached, why don't we make that a middle name?”

 

“His middle name has to be Draco, that's--”

 

“ _Traditional_ ,” she intoned, along with him, although _her_ version of the word was a good deal more mocking than his. “So if it's a girl, is her middle name going to be Hermione?”

 

He frowned. “There's no precedent.”

 

“What about Leo?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “That's a nice name. It won't earn abject confusion and disgust from every person to ever be introduced to my child, it's a constellation...” She turned to face him, and stopped at his glare. Trying and not quite succeeding in hiding her smirk, she asked, innocently: “What? What's wrong with Leo?”

 

“You know _damn well_ what's wrong with Leo.”

 

“At least it _sounds like a name._ Scorpius sounds like the brand name of an itch-relief powder,” she muttered, her nose wrinkling. It also kind of sounded like the name of something one might shove down a toilet to unclog the u-bend.

 

She scooped the pancakes onto two plates and walked one over to him. His glare hadn't lessened. “That's the name of my great-grandfather.”

 

“Well, he missed an excellent opportunity to create an itch-relief powder,” she quipped, turning to grab her own plate and the maple syrup. “I mean, the slogan practically writes itself. _Scorpius: Instant relief from life's nasty little pests_.”

 

“You know,” he drawled, using his fork to slice out a little triangular bite from his stack. “Your crude and _completely un-humorous_ attempts at trying to discredit the name only serve to make me more determined to keep it.”

 

“I will bar you from the birthing room until the certificate is signed, if it comes down to it,” she promised, blandly. “What about Perseus?”

 

“Someone will call him _Percy_. I would rather die.”

 

She stared at him for a beat. “You are possibly the most dramatic person in all of existence. Orion?”

 

He shook his head. “Used last-generation. Has to be at least two generations removed,” he added. “Otherwise it's just tacky. _Unless_ it's the father or grandfather's name, then it's considered an homage and that's acceptable. But you don't pay homage to twice-removed cousins, so, no.”

 

Hermione was rubbing her temples as he spoke, shooting him a withering look.

 

Draco held his hands out helplessly. “I don't make the rules.”

 

“Fine, but who says you have to follow them?” she pointed out, although dully. She knew that Narcissa would likely lose her mind if they didn't follow proper naming protocols. “Rigel.” When his expression soured, she huffed. “What's wrong with _that_ one?”

 

He was silent a beat. “It doesn't sound very imposing.”

 

“Oh, like _Scorpius_ sounds _imposing_ ,” she snapped, incredulously. “Why does he need to sound imposing, anyway? _If you say tradition, I will smack you_.”

 

Slowly, Draco closed his mouth again, and shrugged. “Kale,” he suggested, suddenly.

 

“That's a type of _lettuce_. No. Oberon.”

 

“Do you even _hear yourself_ when you say things?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting at the very suggestion. She glared at him, her lips pursed, and pointedly turned to her pancakes and began eating them, obviously intent on ignoring him for the remainder of breakfast. He ate in a leisurely fashion, his mind crawling through all the possibilities. There had to be more names in the theme that neither of them absolutely hated.

 

After about two minutes of chewing in silence, he said, “Caelum.”

 

Her gaze met his, and as soon as he'd started speaking, she was opening her mouth to make some scathing remark. However, when the name penetrated, she hesitated, considering it. Tapping her fork against the plate a few times, she repeated, slowly: “Caelum. Kye-lum. _Kye_ -lum. Cae for short?” She'd always liked the name 'Kai.' It was phonetically identical.

 

Draco sighed, long-suffering. “If you _insist_ on shortening his name, it _could_ be shortened to that.”

 

“I can't call my own son by something as formal-sounding as Caelum,” she complained.

 

“My mother called me 'Draco.'”

 

“And that should have been the first worrying sign of her mental state,” Hermione said, under her breath. Draco shot her a sharp look that she ignored. “Besides, I think you make a _fine_ Drake. Oh, and your father is _such_ a Lou.”

 

“Don't. Don't you do that,” he grit out, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Don't you dare.”

 

Hermione canted her head to one side. “Do you think 'Lu-Lu' is _too_ intimate a nickname? Should I stick to Lou?” she wondered, in a perfectly innocent tone, ignoring the way he shuddered.

 

“ _Stop_.”

 

“Although Lu-Lu does have a certain _panache_ \--”

 

“Hermione, I am three seconds away from _divorcing_ you,” he threatened, pointing his fork at her. “Or rather, since I can't, pushing you down a flight of stairs and making it look like an accident so I can marry someone less _annoying_.”

 

She primly cut out a bite. “You couldn't live without me if you tried.”

 

His eyes narrowed, but he had no rebuttal.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Have I mentioned, at all, in the last three seconds, how _stupid_ I find this exercise?” she asked, crossing her arms and pacing around the back room of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Draco had spent the week concocting yet another rendition of Bottled Purple Death, and _somehow_ had also gotten both George and Lee to agree to being test subjects.

 

“I don't think you've _stopped_ mentioning it,” Lee said, in a dry tone. “I think I can even hear you muttering it on the inhale.”

 

She glared at him. “And what does Katie think of all this?”

 

“I'll ask her _just as soon_ as I'm back,” he said, offering her a bright smile. “At which point, obviously, I will relay those sentiments _directly_ to you.”

 

“What if you _don't_ come back?”

 

“You know, I'm _also_ here and partaking in a dangerous experiment,” George complained. “Where's all _my_ concern? We're practically family.”

 

“ _Your_ concern is buried under three layers of _incandescent anger_ , and I've been doing you a _favor_ by not trying to _excavate_ it,” Hermione snapped, shooting him a narrow, seething look. “Your mother is never going to let us back into the Burrow ever again, once she catches wind of this.”

 

“You're overreacting,” Draco murmured, putting the finishing touches on his potion. “You came back just fine.”

 

She grunted in disgust, returning to her pacing. Draco and George still didn't quite get along, but George was _always_ up for new and interesting ways to die, apparently, and that had temporarily smoothed things over. “If either of them doesn't come back, the son's named Leo,” she warned. “Leo _Leo_ Granger. I'll name him Leo _twice_.”

 

Lee snickered. “Leo. Your father would have an aneurysm, Malfoy.”

 

“I will incinerate St. Mungo's before any child of _mine_ is named Leo,” Draco promised, calmly. “With everyone inside.”

 

“Harsh,” George stage-whispered to Lee.

 

Draco turned to them both. “It's done,” he said, looking equal parts nervous and exhilarated. “Are you ready?”

 

Lee smirked. “We were _born_ ready.”

 

“Remember what I said about the warning signs,” Draco added, a bit more somberly. “If you feel a pull, it's towards your physical body. If you resist it, you may sever the connection, and... well, I'm not entirely sure how you return from that, so probably best if you just didn't.”

 

The two test subjects saluted in tandem, ignoring Hermione's huffing, and plunged their hands in the cauldron.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Luckily she'd been quick with her wand and had put some cushioning beneath them as they _collapsed_. Their eyes had rolled back in their head, growing glazed and unfocused, and then they'd just crumbled like marionettes. Draco's panic during Hermione's accidental astral wandering suddenly made a lot more sense.

 

After levitating them onto two armchairs, all there was to do was wait.

 

Seeing how tense and pale she looked, Draco said, softly, “Stop panicking. It'll be fine.”

 

“You don't know that. That's why you're testing,” she said, tersely. She returned to pacing. “How long is it supposed to last? It's already been ten minutes, and that's how long you said I was out.”

 

“I don't know,” he admitted. “The healer _tergeo_ 'd the remaining potion from you, which probably shortened the trip a bit.”

 

“So it's only active as long as it's in contact,” she murmured to herself, pacing around the room again. She was all set to do another round when he caught her about the waist, forcing her to stand still and face him.

 

Lowering his head towards hers, he promised, “It's going to be fine.”

 

“How do you know that?” she whispered.

 

“How about this: If it _isn't_ , we _will_ name our first son Leo Leo Granger,” he said, firmly. Her eyebrows rose, and he said, “Yes, that's how sure I am.”

 

Sighing through her nose, she leaned into him. She hated waiting.

 

It reminded her of the war, actually. The books never talked about that part of it – all the waiting. All the waiting and wondering if the next battle would be the last. All those hours alone with one's own pernicious thoughts; that was as true a toll on a person's psyche as any other aspect of the whole sordid business.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It lasted a little over thirty minutes.

 

Suddenly, both George and Lee snapped awake, inhaling sharply and immediately bursting into ragged coughs. She remembered that feeling; that first breath back had felt like fire.

 

Through the coughs, though, they weakly reached across towards each other and high-fived.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes.

 

“How was it? Where did you go?” Draco demanded, scrambling for his notebook. “What did you do?”

 

“Something _stupid_ , no doubt,” Hermione muttered, and George's crooked grin confirmed it. She was willing to bet that they'd gone to someone's house – likely Ron's – and pranked the hell out of him and Susan for thirty straight minutes, like the merciless arseholes they both were. In fact, she would put half of Malfoy's fortune on it.

 

“Well, we paid a little visit to Wonniekins,” George started, and Hermione barked a short laugh.

 

So predictable.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was resting between his legs on the couch, reading a book. He wasn't reading anything, just playing absently with her hair. She knew he was thinking about that damn potion. He was a man obsessed.

 

“We know it's safe,” he said, suddenly, and she groaned. “Hermione, you know how much I want this.”

 

She grumbled a bit.

 

His arms circled around her hiking her further up his chest so he could murmur in her ear. “They tested it and proved it was safe. They didn't even measure how much they put on themselves. They didn't die. They didn't burst into flames. They didn't come back with their brains completely scrambled. They're _fine_.”

 

“Define fine, because I think both of them got murdered by their wives today,” she pointed out.

 

“Hermione.”

 

She scowled at her book. “I suppose we do know it's safe, now,” she finally admitted, begrudgingly. She still didn't want him playing with the damn thing, but she rather thought he'd only grow more obsessed if she tried to keep him from it. “Fine, but... be careful.”

 

“I'm always careful.”

 

“You're a reckless idiot,” she disagreed, sharply.

 

He nuzzled into her neck through the nest of her hair. She could practically feel the smirk radiating off his face. “No, I'm not. I'm very careful and _very_ thorough. And thoughtful. And handsome.”

 

“Oh, my God,” she laughed, caught off guard. “ _Please_ shut up.”

 

Draco pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, right below her ear, and nibbled on the lobe a bit. The hands around her stomach slid up a bit, pushing his Quidditch undershirt up as they sought out her breasts. “Have I mentioned lately how much I _love_ the idea of you being naked under this shirt?”

 

“Only about a thousand times, or so. I don't think it's quite penetrated, honestly--” She gasped as he tweaked a nipple. “Maybe you could say it a few hundred times more. Draco, I'm reading.”

 

He pressed lazy kisses against her neck, drifting down to her shoulder. “Who's stopping you from reading? Read away.”

 

“ _You_ are, you're molesting me,” she accused.

 

“I am _appreciating_.”

 

“Groping.”

 

“Admiring,” he purred into her ear, rolling her nipple between his thumb and his palm. She moaned a bit, dropping her head back against his shoulder. “In fact, let's go to the bedroom so I can admire your brains out.”

 

“Wow, you're so romantic. Such a way with words,” she drawled, closing her book and setting it on the coffee table.

 

He released her so she could sit up. “That's why you love me.”

 

“Do I?”

 

He caught her about the waist, yanking her back down with a surprised squeal into his lap. His hand covered her groin, his palm pressing lazily in as he nipped at her lips with his teeth. “Don't test me,” he warned. “I've half a mind to make you regret that.”

 

Writhing a bit in his grip, she bit back a whimper when his finger rubbed against her. “I'll never regret it,” she challenged.

 

“You regret it already,” he guessed, and smirked when she shook her head. “Well, I think I can spare a few hours towards making that true.”

 

“You are _not_ keeping me up that late, I have work in the morning.”

 

“I suppose your exhaustion tomorrow will cause you regret, then,” he said, still stroking her. His voice was casual, nonchalant. She didn't know how he managed to _do_ that. “I'll exhaust you all night and switch the coffee out for decaf by morning.”

 

“That's just _evil_.”

 

Draco hummed in agreement, and stood, pulling her up with him. She swayed unsteadily as he continued to rub her beneath the Quidditch undershirt, and his smug grin widened a bit.

 

She shoved him a bit, towards the hallway. “Bedroom. _I'm_ on top, you control freak.”

 

He licked his fingers as lasciviously as he could, popping the digits out of his mouth. She felt her face heat, but maintained her narrow glare as she followed him down the hallway. “Avoiding your punishment? That's not very Gryffindor.”

 

“Shut up and lie on your back and keep your stupid mouth shut,” she suggested, biting back a laugh.

 

Draco flopped onto the bed. His smug grin faded only the tiniest bit when she mounted him, an expression of pure bliss taking over for just a moment before the dumb smile returned. She dragged his hand to her clit in a silent order that he was only too happy to fulfill as she rode him.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“What are your Christmas plans?” he asked, suddenly.

 

Hermione blinked at him. “I usually spend them with my parents,” she said, slowly. She realized that she hadn't really thought about it, much, despite the fact that her marriage really changed everything. She finished her toast, standing. “Yours?”

 

“In France with my parents,” he said. “We visit the extended family. Suppose we'll do them separate this year?”

 

“I guess that makes sense,” she agreed. “When do you leave?”

 

Draco scooped up a bit of oatmeal with a heap of brown sugar on it. She could hear it _crunching_ in his mouth as he chewed, although he steadfastly denied that the amount of sugar he put on his oatmeal was in any way disproportionate or abnormal. “They'll leave right after mother's fundraiser. I suppose I'll go Christmas Eve.”

 

“Did you...” She trailed off, uncertain. When he glanced at her, eyebrows raising, she flushed a bit. “I mean, did you want to do Christmas Eve at my parents'?”

 

He considered it, shaking his head slowly. “Christmas Eve is the party in my family,” he explained. “I can't miss it.”

 

“Well, what do they do Christmas day?”

 

“Sleep and eat.”

 

She moved to the sink to rinse off her plate. “What if we did Christmas Eve over _there_ and came back here for Christmas morning with my parents?” she asked, a little hesitantly. Combining Christmases might be a bit much, she realized. They'd only just reconnected for the first time a little under _ten months_ ago.

 

And while she was happy, she knew very well that this relationship was moving at a breakneck pace that was probably ill-advised on just about every level.

 

“That could work,” he agreed, although his tone was a little guarded as he thought it over. “Do the party, portkey back in the dead of night, and try not to fall asleep on your parents' couch over breakfast.” There was a pause. “I'm sure my parents would be delighted to have you join us, but are you sure?”

 

Her nose wrinkled a bit, but she smoothed it out before turning back to him. “I mean, I should meet your family sometime, right?”

 

Draco looked a little wary. “They're not as... Let me put it this way,” he said, a bit delicately. “My father's ancestors are the _more liberal_ branch of the family. Not everyone's a raging arsehole, mind, but there's enough of them mixed in that it might be-- Well, you might not have a good time.”

 

Oh.

 

Wow. Lucius Malfoy was the _hippie cousin_ of the Malfoys.

 

 _Wow_.

 

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Well, I'll think about it, then. But that _does_ sound pretty unpleasant.”

 

He grimaced a bit, not looking particularly happy about it, but what else could be done? The people in his family were what they were, and it was very unlikely Hermione – brilliant as she was – would change their minds in the course of a single evening. “Maybe next year,” he suggested. That would give her more exposure to the Pureblood circles, at least, and she'd know what to _expect_.

 

Hermione smiled a bit. “Okay. So-- you'll go on Christmas Eve. When will you be back?”

 

“Christmas Day,” he promised. “After I sleep off the hangover.”

 

Her smile widened into a grin. “I'll make sure to hide all the Pepper Up so you can learn a lesson about overindulgence,” she promised, earning a faint scowl in protest as she headed back to the bedroom to get dressed for work.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“I've got something to show you.”

 

Hermione yelped and nearly jumped straight out of her chair. She'd been so concentrated on her work that she hadn't even heard the tell-tale click of Pansy's heels. “Good _God_ , Parkinson, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” she hissed, twisting in her chair a bit to glare at the woman. She smoothed a hand over her chest to try and calm the rapid beating.

 

Pansy scoffed, not looking apologetic in the _slightest_. “And here I thought you'd honed your situational awareness during the war some,” she drawled. “Stop by after work.”

 

“You couldn't have owled me that?” Hermione protested, incredulous.

 

The dark-haired girl put her hand on her hip, cocking it slightly. “And robbed you of the glory of seeing my outfit for the day? I'm not cruel, Granger.” Hermione rolled her eyes, and she smirked a bit. “Actually, I was already stopping by to bother Potter about the fundraiser.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“You'll see. My place, six o'clock, and I hate waiting, so be prompt,” Pansy ordered, pivoting on her heel. With a swirl of luxurious furs, she was gone, the fading _click-clack_ of her heels echoing through the department.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When Pansy answered the door, her lips were pursed in an angry pout. “It is six-fifteen,” she said, flatly.

 

“Sorry! I got held up,” Hermione defended. “I can't just leave when my boss hands me something urgent and say that it's because you're expecting me at your place, you know.” She gently shook the rain off of her umbrella and looked around for a place to put it. There didn't seem to be anything designed to hold it, so she gingerly leaned it against the wall of the foyer.

 

“Ugh. Can't you charm yourself like everyone else?” Pansy demanded, shooting the dripping umbrella a disgusted look.

 

She didn't wait for an answer, pivoting to head off deeper into the flat. Hermione threw her hands up a bit at her back, scowling, and peeled her own rain-drenched coat off herself, struggling a bit. “No, don't help, or anything,” she said, sourly. “I'm _perfectly_ fine.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Pansy responded, disappearing through a hallway.

 

Hermione made a face in her general direction. Since there wasn't a _coat rack_ , either, she dumped her raincoat and her scarf on a sculpted marble dog before hurrying after the girl.

 


	69. The Lone Weasley

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Lone Weasley**

…

She was standing in front of a room-dividing screen. Pansy circled around her, smiling, her face lit up with excitement. "Are you ready?"

Hermione squinted. "Ready for _what_?"

Pansy rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. "Just say _yes_ , you obnoxious bint," she groaned.

"Yes," Hermione intoned, dutifully.

" _Thank_ you." Pansy took her wand out of her furs with an unnecessary flourish, glaring at Hermione a bit when the bushy-haired witch failed to be appropriately impressed. She flicked her wand at the screen, and it compressed, folding up to reveal a mannequin.

And on the mannequin was a dress. It was- well, like nothing Hermione had ever really seen, before. She tiled her head a bit to regard it, mouth falling open a little.

It was blue. Although, thinking about it, "blue" didn't seem to adequately cover it; it had an opalescence to it, like an oil spill on a sidewalk. As Hermione moved around the dress a bit, the colors shifted, flashing in a variety of colors, from pink to green to purple, although somehow the dress still maintained a sense of _blueness_ beneath the rainbow.

The skirts were full and the torso was fitted, and it looked _just_ on the right side of being scandalously low-cut. There was one sleeve of billowing, transparent silk, held up on the shoulder by some sort of silver piece that curled across the top of the shoulder and around the neck.

"What-" Hermione blinked at it. "Did you make this?"

"Yes," Pansy said, smiling happily at the dress. Hermione was quite sure she'd never seen Pansy look so openly pleased before, almost like a woman in love. The way she was staring at the dress made Hermione feel a little bit like a third wheel. "It's one of the collection. I'm clothing all of you for the fundraiser."

"Why?"

She lifted a shoulder. "It's my debut. And this one's yours."

"Mine?" Hermione scoffed. "I don't even think my _wedding dress_ was this ornate. Don't you think this might be a bit much?"

"Granger, it's a _gala_. You can't just go in any old evening dress. Besides, you'll be in good company," Pansy promised. "You, Draco, your friends – and Narcissa and Lucius, of course. And myself. And Daphne. Yours is my favorite, though. I was really inspired when I did it. Try it on."

Hermione began shaking her head. "I don't like to stand out at these things, Parkinson-"

"Yes, I know, you're a little wallflower," Pansy scoffed, pantomiming a gagging motion. "Listen, you're a Malfoy, now, and you don't sit on the sidelines. _Especially_ given your political aspirations. Try it on."

She hedged as much as she could, but Pansy was an unstoppable force of nature, and within ten minutes Hermione found herself in the dress. She stood before a full-length mirror, grimacing. It was a _beautiful_ dress, she couldn't deny that – but she looked ridiculous in it. "This belongs on someone more glamorous than I," she said, in a dry tone. "I can't pull this off, Parkinson. It's a gorgeous dress, but-"

"Relax. You're not wearing any make-up and your hair looks like a stack of dry hay," Pansy reminded her, smirking a bit when Hermione shot her a narrow look. "When I get through with you, you'll look every inch as though you belong in this dress. _Trust me_."

" _Trust_ you? I really don't think I should," Hermione muttered, but with a sense of resignation that made Pansy grin.

0o0o0o0o0o0

When Hermione arrived in her flat by the Floo, Draco came running into the room just as her eyes landed on the stacks of books on the coffee table. He flung himself over them and glared up at her. "These are _my textbooks_ and you are not to _touch them_ ," he enunciated. "I got you your _own_ and they're in a box in the kitchen, and you can write in them and dog-ear them and whatever other obnoxious things you do, but _these_ are _mine_."

Her jaw dropped. "You say that like _all_ I do is scuff books up," she gasped. "I treat books with more respect than-"

"I've seen you writing in yours," Draco muttered, gathering every last one up and putting them safely on the edge of his potions bench. "Yours are in the _kitchen_. Don't even look at these. I don't want you to even acknowledge them as _existing_."

"Oh my God, you are ridiculous," she huffed, shrugging out of her robes and heading into the kitchen to look through the books. "How much did it cost to buy an extra set of these?"

"Don't worry about it. If I hadn't taken the precaution, the cost on my _sanity_ would be far higher." He followed her into the kitchen, his voice fading when he realized that she'd not opened the box at all but was standing at the stove. "Oh, uh—"

Stifling a smile, she picked up the cookbook – a gift from her aunt, many years ago – and glanced between the picture of seared salmon and the mess on the stove. "Dinner?" she asked, poking at the decimated piece of fish. It looked like it had stuck to the pan, and had torn in half when he'd tried to pry it up. The piece that was still stuck looked decidedly black around the edges. "Didn't you put oil in?"

"Don't look at me! You promised me cooking classes!" he defended, hotly. His ears had taken on a distinct, pink-ish hue as he turned to grump back into the living room.

She turned the stove off, biting the insides of her lips to keep from laughing.

She set the burned mess into the sink and poured water on it. Hopefully it would sink into the charcoal-ified bits of salmon over the course of the evening. When she was sure she wouldn't start laughing or smiling, she followed him into the living room, where he was scowling ferociously at his empty cauldron.

"So," she said, pursing her lips in thought. "Sushi?"

He hesitated, but turned for the door and grabbed his coat. A bit sheepishly, he muttered, "I'll buy you a new pan."

"I can probably salvage that one," she assured him, and he shot her a sharp look when he couldn't figure out if the warmth in her tone was fondness or amusement. She put on her best innocent face, and his nose scrunched a bit as he preceded her into the hallway. "By the way, that was simply precious."

"Oh, _shut up_ ," he snapped, stomping down the stairs.

0o0o0o0o0o0

As they walked back, she looked up at the stars. They were shining crisply, as they only ever did in winter. "Why do you think we smell what we smell, with your potion?" she asked, suddenly.

Draco followed her gaze upwards a bit before looking at her. "I'm not sure _why_ , but it does seem to be related to where you show up when you first go through," he said, slowly. "Weasley said the potion smelled like burning rubber, and he ended up in his testing room in the shop. Jordan smelled some sort of cinnamon bread and wound up at the shop that makes it. You smelled aconite-"

"And ended up in a field of it," she finished, frowning.

She almost wanted to say that maybe the potion just took on the smell of whatever occupied one's thoughts most prevalently, but if that were the case, aconite wouldn't be her smell – and bread _certainly_ wouldn't be Lee's.

"It must have something to do with the purpose of the potion," he continued, thoughtfully. "Perhaps you can achieve enlightenment and escape the cycle of life if you successfully brew a cheap version of wolfsbane."

"And, what, Lee will achieve transcendence if he successfully bakes bread?"

He made a face at her sarcastic tone. "Oh, I'm sorry, did _you_ have any better theories you'd like to float, since mine are so ridiculous?" he demanded.

She sighed. Because, well, that was the thing. She really didn't.

Draco stared at her a beat longer, and then smirked, smugness spreading over his expression. "Thought as much."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione didn't try and offer a rebuttal, and did her best to stifle the smile she knew was growing on her face. Eventually, though, it faded. "Maybe it was trying to tell me something," she said, quietly. "I mean, that place- it wasn't any place I'd ever been. Those mountains, I didn't recognize them. And it was high. I could _feel_ how high it was."

He chewed on it for a moment. "Well, where in the world has mountains and aconite?"

She pursed her lips. "I wonder if Neville RSVP'd to the fundraiser," she said. "I feel like the puzzle pieces are _there_ , but I don't have enough information to start assembling them. He said something about Indian aconite that I can't stop thinking about, the last time I visited. It's got to be significant."

"Does it?" Draco muttered, doubtfully. "I highly doubt Longbottom's said a single significant thing in his _entire_ life."

"Arse," she snorted, and he grinned.

Yes, the puzzle pieces were there, but she was missing a corner piece. And the lid of the box with the picture on it.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"You are such a baby," Ginny scoffed. Ron's face soured further at his sister's jabbing, and he crossed his arms mulishly. "Merlin. Harry, will you _please_ talk some sense into him?"

"It looks bloody ridiculous!" Ron protested. He glanced at Draco, and looked briefly awkward. "Sorry."

Draco shrugged. He'd already decided early on that his official stance on the matter was Unaffiliated and Completely Apathetic. He'd also firmly decided that he would not be acting as a mediator between Ron and Pansy. Hermione had found that to be a pretty good idea and had quickly decided the same.

"It's just for a night, Ron," Harry reminded him, tiredly.

"Oh, I suppose that's meant to make me feel better, is it? That I'll look like a bloody idiot for just a night?" Ron demanded, incredulously. "Besides, easy enough for you to say. Yours actually looks good. Mine looks like- like-"

"A dragon cowboy," Hermione murmured, thoughtfully, earning an exasperated glare from Harry.

Ginny rolled her eyes when Ron pointed at Hermione and nodded emphatically. "Well, I happen to think it looks cool," she said, in a prim tone she very seldom adopted and practically screamed _I'm lying_. "And I'll tell you this much: You're not going to get her into a snit and have her yank back everything else she made for the rest of us, so get over it and wear the damn dragon leather."

Ron glared at her. "Or _what_?"

"Do you really want to go down this road?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft as she reached for her wand.

"Not fair. You're pregnant."

She pulled her wand out, her eyes half-lidded and lips pursed in silent promise. Ron whined, slumping down in the bench-seat of the pub. Hermione could hear him kicking his feet petulantly beneath the table.

"I think you'll make a fine cowboy," Susan assured him, hiding her smile in her glass of cider.

"You better stop them from making fun of me," Ron grit out, glaring at Ginny. "Or I'll make a scene so wild that Parkinson will throw your dress in a bonfire."

" _Everyone_ be nice to Ron," Ginny ordered, promptly. _Her_ dress, Hermione had to admit, had been particularly beautiful. It was hard to flatter a maternity cut, but Pansy had managed to do it, and Ginny looked no less glamorous than anyone else. "Or I'll make you regret it."

Everyone was silent for a beat.

Ron drained his beer. "Let's go."

"Giddy up," Harry whispered, and Hermione burst into snorting laughter as Ron leveled him with a particularly impressive glare. Everyone else bit back their smiles as best they could as they filed out of the booth.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"I take it you don't shape your eyebrows," Pansy sighed, after staring at her face for several minutes.

"Oh, for God's sake," Hermione muttered. She could feel her face heating a bit. "Don't _you_ start. Look, this is the shape I _like_ them to be in, alright?"

Pansy shot her a doubtful look, eyes panning up and down her face. "I don't know if I'd call it a shape. 'Shape' seems like a generous term for these blobs."

"Look, I'll _leave_ -"

Pansy tsked, dismissing her threat with an idle wave of her hand as she turned to her selection of make-up (which was possibly the most needless and excessive display Hermione had _ever_ seen), her manicured nails skimming over the options before settling on a warm-palette blue-ish pink. "Draco always told me he found _my_ drama taxing, but I'd say you're a million times worse."

Hermione gaped at her incredulously as she turned back. "Close your mouth, the foundation tends to cloud up a bit," Pansy warned, before attacking her with a generous dusting of it.

She clamped her mouth shut on the squeal and squeezed her eyes shut.

The rest of it was a blur. Mostly, it was painful; Pansy insisted on shaping her eyebrows, pulled her eyelids in every direction to get a flatter canvass for whatever the hell she was doing with the eyeshadow, and stabbed Hermione in the eye more than once with the eyeliner brush.

"Ow," Hermione growled.

"If you don't stop _flinching_ , I'm going to have to start over," the dark-haired witch snapped. "Now hold _still_ and stop flailing around like a toddler at every little thing."

"You just stabbed me in the eye!"

"You imagined it."

"I most certainly _did not_ imagine your pointed utensil stabbing- ow! _Parkinson_!"

Pansy's voice was implacable. "Well, that's what you get for talking. What did I say about holding still?" She shoved Hermione's head back and pulled at the skin on her temples to try and compensate for Hermione aggressively squeezing her eyes shut. "And relax your eyes."

"How am I supposed to do that, knowing you're going to _stab them_?"

"You look prettier than you've ever looked. I've half a mind to kiss you," Pansy drawled, and Hermione's eyes shot open in shock. The witch smiled in triumph and finished her line. "There we go. Stop gaping."

Hermione spluttered, and she didn't think she managed to form a coherent sentence through the application of her lipstick and the fixing of her hair. She stared at herself in the mirror as Pansy yanked and pulled her hair in every direction. She wasn't even sure she really recognized herself – that must be the 'contouring' Pansy had talked about. Because Hermione was 100% sure that she'd never had cheekbones this sharp, before. And her nose wasn't this thin.

The dominant eyeshadow was blue, but she realized as Pansy turned her head back and forth that it shared the same opalescence as the dress Pansy had made for her. The winged eyeliner and the crimson lipstick made her _deeply_ uncomfortable.

The hairstyle, like the dress, was complex and ornate. She was pretty sure Pansy had formed flower-shapes out of her hair at the back of her head, where the curls seemed to spill out of.

She looked like she belonged on a runway.

How in God's name was she supposed to _talk to people_ , knowing she looked like this?

"I look..." Hermione started, awkwardly.

"Stunning," Pansy agreed, with a faint sigh, and Hermione's eyebrows nearly shot off her head. But Pansy looked so damned pleased with the transformation, her protests died in her throat, and she mustered a smile that the Slytherin witch returned brilliantly.

0o0o0o0o0o0

It was a bad sign that Draco was rendered completely speechless by her appearance. His mouth fell open slightly, and he blinked rapidly as he tried to form a sentence. "You, uh... Huh," he finally settled on, eyebrows drawing together a bit. "You... certainly look like... someone Pansy's friends with."

Hermione groaned. "I'm _not_ going," she complained, turning towards the Floo to go to her own flat.

He was chuckling when he caught her wrist. "I'm sorry. I was just... caught off-guard," he finally settled on. "You look very pretty."

"I look like a _circus_ ," she ground out, mutinously.

"The prettiest circus around," he agreed, pulling her back from the Floo. His grin widened when she glared up at him. "Honestly, you could probably go under a different name and nobody would know it was you. Did you want to try that? Might be fun."

"Think you're funny?"

"I'm hilarious."

She twisted her arm out of his hand, her expression sour. In contrast to her, Draco was decked out in a silver suit that looked magnificent. He looked like a bloody fairy prince. _Typical_. "I'm going home."

"You can't," he said, grabbing her arm again and trying to keep his amusement from being too obvious. "My mother would be devastated. Besides, it's a good cause," he added, putting on the most serious expression he could muster. "Could you _really_ live with yourself, knowing you _abandoned_ it?"

"I hate you," she hissed.

He tilted her chin up, smiling indulgently at her. "You love me." She wrinkled her nose at him, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips.

When he pulled back, she sighed. "Be honest. How ridiculous do I look?"

"You'll be in good company," he reminded her. "Remember, the Lone Weasley is going to be there." That broke her composure, and he grinned a bit at her smile. "We'll all look like a visiting alien race. It's not like you'll be the only one."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You didn't, by any chance, invest in Parkinson's fashion business?"

He hesitated a beat too long, and she squawked indignantly. "As a friend!" he defended.

"You are _something else_ , Malfoy," she huffed, trying to pull her hands free from his. He was like a human octopus, though – every time she got one free, a hand came out of nowhere and captured her fingers again.

"I won't disagree with you, there." He caught her hand a final time and planted a kiss on her knuckles. "Let's go find Mum."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Her coworkers were as similarly stunned by her appearance as Draco had been. She was, at the _very_ least, somewhat gratified when she realized that one of them was awkwardly hitting on her. That made her feel _slightly_ better about the whole thing.

When Ron arrived, he was slouching deplorably, nearly at Susan's height for all his efforts. "Howdy, there," Hermione said, brightly, grinning all the wider when he scowled at her. "Need to wet your whistle, _pardner_?"

"I'm going to _bloody well leave_ ," he snarled, doing his best to pull his head into his torso like a turtle.

" _Al_ right, you whinging toddler," she laughed, patting his shoulder. "Come on, you can't say you don't want to poke a little fun at _me_ , right now?"

He shot her a dirty look. "Yes, it must be such an _ordeal_ to look like a fashion model, fresh out of Milan. I don't know _how_ you've managed to keep your composure all evening. You're a real inspiration."

She plucked a glass of champagne off a passing server's tray and thrust it at him. "Goodness, you are in a right snit. Has he been like this all day?"

"I've no idea," Susan admitted. "I tuned out his griping three days ago, or so."

"Wow, is this what it feels like to be so supported?" Ron asked the air, in a snotty tone. He spotted Harry across the room and petulantly pulled his hand free from his wife, slouching across the ballroom to join his friend.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Susan sighed and rolled her eyes. "He has been a right _brat_ all day," she muttered. "Although he certainly wasn't wrong about _you_. Hermione, I barely recognized you!"

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I've been hearing that all night," she said, wryly.

Laughing, Susan flagged down a server to ask for something non-alcoholic. "You look beautiful," she assured her. "But in this very _untouchable_ way. You're usually pretty, but approachable, you know? Now you look like the kind of girl who sleeps on a bed of a million pounds and orders servants around. Oh! Kind of like a Pureblood."

"Now _that_ is an insult." But she was smiling, and Susan laughed.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Socializing for a _cause_ was tiring. She wasn't sure how to go about asking for money in the polite, round-about way that was clearly expected – Lucius had spent the first half of the evening trying to coach her, but when she'd gravely offended an Italian witch of some wealth, he pinched the bridge of his nose and ordered her not to talk to _anyone else_ about the fundraiser. He'd also told her that she'd be taking Saturday 'lessons' with him on proper social graces until she stopped being an embarrassment.

It was pretty much the most openly insulting he'd been since she'd joined his family, and as much as it kind of stung to be told that she wasn't _good_ at something... well, a part of her was glad that he had reached the point of being more frank with her.

Although good Lord, she hoped to never see him so exasperated with her again.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Neville!" she called, waving at him.

He turned and smiled, waving back. Hermione hurried towards him. "Sorry we're late," he said, grimacing a bit. "I had to grade some last-minute essays before the hols and it put me back a bit with my watering rotation- sorry, I'm boring you," he interrupted himself, his ears going pink.

"No, you're not," she promised. "And I'm _so_ glad you're here. I need your expertise again."

"The wolfsbane, again?"

Hermione nodded. "Come on. Let's go find somewhere quiet, I've been excommunicated from the fundraising aspect of the party, anyway – oh, unless you wanted to – sorry, where's Hannah?"

"She's dancing with Ron," Neville assured her, smiling gently. "I won't be missed. And to be honest, crowds like this aren't exactly my favorite, anyway."

Smiling gratefully, she began to lead him out of the ballroom and towards the front foyer. As she walked, she breathlessly explained her little 'astral trip' to him, mostly lingering on the field of aconite she'd seen when she'd first been doused with the potion. Neville listened attentively, frowning a bit in thought as she spoke. It was a lot to take in, and she was sure she was speaking much too quickly, but Neville didn't seem to miss a beat. When she'd finished, he nodded slowly, still thinking.

"High mountains, I mean... that puts me in the mind of the Himalayas. And we already know that aconite grows in that area," he said, thoughtfully.

"That's what I was _thinking_ , but... God, Neville, I feel like my mind is just spinning in circles," she sighed. "I think, oh, I'll just go find the field. But that doesn't really fix the problem of affordability. Even if we did find large expanse of potent-enough aconite for the potion, exporting it is only going to raise costs astronomically."

"Why don't we ask the Indian Consulate?" he suggested. "They've an office in Paris, I believe. Surely they have werewolves in India."

She shook her head. "They don't make wolfsbane. It's a British potion."

"Right," he said, eyebrows raising a bit. "And we're certainly not exporting what little wolfsbane _we_ have... so that kind of begs the question, doesn't it? How do other countries deal with werewolves?"

Hermione stopped, staring at him for a long moment.

 _How do other countries deal with werewolves_? She was almost a little ashamed to realize that she hadn't ever asked herself that. She'd always just assumed that they _didn't_ deal with werewolves – that werewolves just wreaked wanton havoc everywhere outside of the United Kingdom. Which may well be true, she realized, but it was certainly a good question to ask.

Still stunned, she stared at Neville in wonder. "Has anyone ever told you how _brilliant_ you are?"

He flushed, chuckling in embarrassment as he shrugged his shoulders, slouching them around his ears. "Not lately," he joked, gaze dipping away from her at the unexpected praise.

Laughing softly, she grabbed his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. "Brilliant, _brilliant_ Neville," she murmured, fondly. "Thank _God_ you came, today. I think you just saved me years of agonizing think-tanking. Seriously."

"You would've thought it up probably _tomorrow_ ," he disagreed. "It's only some crazy fluke that I beat you to it, I'm pretty sure."

Smiling widely, she shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. I'm going to have to bend your ear more often, Professor Longbottom."

Still grinning through his blush, he shrugged silently, absurdly pleased to have been of any help.


	70. Reunion

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy: Reunion**

 

…

 

“Oh! Merlin,” Pansy snapped. Hermione glanced at her. Pansy was glaring across the ballroom with narrowed eyes. She looked ready to hex something. “How can you let her walk _around_ like that? I thought you were friends.”

 

Hermione knew, without looking, that she was referring to Luna.

 

The dreamy blonde had surprised them all the day before by arriving in town – not by accident, either, but specifically because she wanted to attend the fundraiser. Shocked, Neville had admitted to mentioning it in a letter he'd owled her some two months prior, although her response had mostly been about Glundyblergs or something, so he'd assumed she'd just glossed right over it.

 

Typically of Luna, she was attending the gala in sneakers and a ballerina-esque skirt, her striped tights clashing fantastically with the tie-dye shirt and jean vest she'd chosen to accompany it.

 

She remembered Lucius' mention of Pansy's 'ill-breeding,' so many months ago, and recalled with a bit of a start that Narcissa had _welcomed_ the blonde into her gala with barely a flicker of an eyelash. There truly was something to be said for the Malfoys when it came to socializing, she supposed. It was more than throwing a party; it was ensuring that every person in it felt accepted, even special. Ensuring that they felt that the party was _for them_.

 

Something Narcissa did with effortless grace. The Malfoys' skill in social climbing was obviously not just luck and money.

 

Daphne Greengrass turned to look, and before Hermione could say anything – rise to Luna's defense, perhaps, or just shrug – she said, “I like it.”

 

“ _What_?” Pansy demanded, whirling on her friend.

 

Daphne chuckled, shrugging a shoulder. “I mean, it's certainly attention-grabbing, isn't it?”

 

“If you _like_ that kind of attention,” Pansy muttered, disdain coating her words like venom. Daphne didn't look too perturbed, though, shrugging again and slugging back another swallow of champagne. The dark-haired witch's narrowed eyes cut to Luna again, her nose wrinkling. “Ugh. It's going to drive me to distraction,” she complained, turning dramatically away to put the blonde out of her sight.

 

Hermione caught Daphne's gaze and they shared a little eyeroll, stifling twin smiles.

 

“Granger?”

 

She turned, the small smile still playing about her lips, and gasped a bit. “Nott!” she said, surprised but pleased. “I mean, Theo. Sorry. I need to get used to that. I'm surprised you're back in country. Holidays at uni, though, right?”

 

His left eyebrow flickered a bit like he wanted to raise it, and for Theo, that was expression enough. “Indeed,” he drawled, his tone a vast desert that left her feeling parched. “And normally I'd be quite content to spend them in Turkey's climate, but Mrs. Malfoy made it very clear that my presence was quite necessary.”

 

“She wants you to donate?”

 

He chuckled, barely a noise at all. “Hardly. I've little fortune to fritter on causes. I believe she'd like to have a strong reformed Death Eater presence for the journalists.”

 

She squinted. “ _You_ weren't one, though.”

 

“Not according to the ace detectives at the _Prophet_ ,” he murmured, scornfully. The music died away and began again, and he held out his hand.

 

It took her a second to recognize it as an invitation. “Oh,” she said, dumbly, looking around for a place to put her champagne flute. It ended up on a side table as she followed him to the dance floor hollowed out in the center of the room. “I'm a little out of practice since the wedding, so if we're going to do this, I'm going to go ahead and need you to promise that you won't wince when I stomp on your toes.”

 

Recalling her dreadful skills – or lackthereof – Theo adjusted their positions so she was nearly a full arms' length away.

 

“Okay, see, this? This is calling attention to it,” she complained, laughing.

 

“You asked me not to _wince_. I'm ensuring I don't,” he reminded her. He turned her around and leaned in a bit, dropping his voice. “And I don't intend to alarm you, but Zabini is circling the floor looking rather predatory. I believe his marriage is going even worse than _he_ anticipated. Don't look,” he said, sharply, when she started to twist her head around.

 

“I haven't even seen him since the wedding,” she admitted, quietly. “I could probably go another _forever_ without it, to be honest.”

 

“Luckily for you, I don't think he's angling to earn any more of Draco's ire,” Theo assured her. “He's precious few friends, and although I believe he maintains that he's no need for them, he's proven awfully accommodating when threatened with losing them, previously.”

 

Hermione regarded Theo, frowning. “Then why bother me, at all?”

 

She felt more than saw the shrug, the faint twitch of his muscles beneath her fingers. “Your husband acted a good deal more apathetic towards the prospect of being married to you at one point, in comparison to now.”

 

She groaned and sighed. “You Slytherins are exhausting.”

 

“But never boring.”

 

She supposed _that_ was true. She glanced around the ballroom from the corners of her eyes, trying to catch the dark-skinned wizard. She couldn't see him at all. “So who's he out to prey on, then?” She caught Theo's faint movement, his chin pointing subtly to the right, and followed the line of it. Blaise was leaning languidly against a pillar, smiling serenely as Luna chattered on about something. His smile made it clear that he wasn't really paying attention to her words.

 

“I think he's got his target,” Theo said.

 

Hermione stared at them a beat, and started to laugh. It was quiet, at first, and then so jolting that she almost had to stop dancing. When Theo stared at her, eyebrows lifting in surprise, she grinned wickedly. “Can we stop after this song? Because I'm pretty sure I want to _see_ this.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She trusted Theo to navigate them, pulling them close to the pillar Blaise was leaning on as gradually and silently and nonchalantly as possible, hoping not to draw any attention. Hermione could just _barely_ make out their conversation over the din of the crowd.

 

“It's noisy in here,” Blaise was commenting, idly. “What you're saying is fascinating. Maybe we should find somewhere quieter.”

 

“I'd like to return to Mr. Malfoy's study,” Luna agreed, promptly, excitement trickling into her voice. “I'd love to see if the Nargle infestation has abated since I made my suggestions to him about promoting positive energy.”

 

She saw Blaise lean forward slightly, almost as if he were scenting victory. “That sounds perfect,” he purred.

 

“That's great, Blaise,” she said. “I even brought extra equipment, in case Mr. Malfoy wanted to see for himself. But it will fit you, too. It fits everyone.” There was some rustling as she pulled something out of _somewhere_ , and Hermione got the distinct pleasure of seeing Blaise Zabini's back go ramrod straight in shock.

 

God, what she wouldn't give to be able to see his face.

 

As if to answer her prayers, they both moved out from behind the pillar. Luna had Blaise's hand in hers, and the usually unflappably elegant man looked completely shell-shocked as he trailed behind her, bug-eyed goggles strapped over his face. Hermione honestly half-expected him to yank his hand free and tear the goggles off, but either he was too surprised by the sudden move to do anything but follow her, or...

 

Or he _really_ thought that there was a shag to be had in that Nargle-infested study.

 

“Merlin,” Theo whispered, as Blaise disappeared into the corridor. “I am... _endlessly_ amazed by the lengths a man will go to, sometimes.”

 

Hermione snorted. “You know, I used to be, too. Before I got to know so many of you _so well_.”

 

Iron-like fingers clamped onto her elbow, and she turned to Ginny's wide-eyed, gaping shock. “Did you _just see_ Zabini get towed out of here in Luna's _equipment_? Please tell me you saw it. Oh, Merlin, I just-- would it be bad form to follow them? I need a camera, where's Creevey when you _finally need him_ \--?”

 

Trying to stifle her laughter, Hermione said, lowly, “Please tell me Ron saw. That should cheer him up, really.”

 

“Are you kidding me? That could've cheered Voldemort _himself_ up,” Ginny exclaimed. Her eyes panned to Theo, briefly, and she smiled prettily. “Hullo, Nott. Excuse me, I have to tell the entire literal _world_ about this.” With a flurry of red, she was gone.

 

Theo stared after her. “That's interesting.”

 

“What?”

 

“The idea of cheering the Dark Lord up,” he murmured, staring at nothing. Probably trying (and failing) to imagine such a thing. “Is that what you Gryffindors think? That he was suffering from a bit of a bad _mood_?”

 

“Or a really nasty hangover,” Hermione said, gravely, and he shot her a sharp look. She maintained an innocent, earnest expression.

 

His eyes narrowed. “You're getting a lot better at that.”

 

“Thank you,” she said, feeling a satisfied smirk spread across her face. Take _that_ , Lucius Malfoy!

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco plopped a champagne flute into her hand and tilted his head towards the far side of the room. “There's the one my mother was hoping for. Monsieur Lerevel. I've heard his wealth makes the Malfoys look like _Weasleys_.”

 

“Har har har,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, keep Hermione away from him if you're hoping for money.”

 

Smirking faintly, Draco said, “Yes, I heard about Signora Vallousse.”

 

Souring, Hermione glared up at them both. “All I did was ask her how much she was planning to donate! She's at a _fundraiser_. You can't tell me that's a completely unreasonable question at a _fundraiser_.”

 

“You are so adorable,” Draco murmured. She reminded him of an angry little kitten as she scowled up at him.

 

“Hermione, I'm a dirt-poor money-grubbing Weasley, and even _I_ know better,” Ron stage-whispered, breaking into a flurry of snickering as he sipped at his drink.

 

She shot him a piercing glare. “Don't you have some cattle to rustle up?” she asked, sharply, and was instantly rewarded with a pained scowl at the reminder of his attire. When Ron didn't try and muster up a response, she turned back to her husband. “What would _you_ have said, then?”

 

“Literally _anything_ else. Like, 'fine weather you're having back home, isn't it?'”

 

She stared at him. “How is that supposed to get her to donate?”

 

Sighing, Draco shook his head. “My father's really got his work cut out, with you. I wonder how many Saturdays he'll be able to endure before he just jumps through the solarium window,” he wondered, in a dry tone. “Weasley, you think you and your brood would be interested in a wager on the matter?”

 

“No! What did I say about betting on me?” Hermione exclaimed, her voice growing a tad shrill.

 

“A Galleon?” Ron suggested, perking up a bit.

 

“ _One_ Galleon? I don't understand how that's even meant to be _fun_ ,” Draco complained. “What could you _possibly_ buy with a single Galleon? A banana?”

 

Ron gaped at him, incredulous. “How is it _possible_ to have so much money and have no idea what any of it's worth?” he demanded. “Look, for those of us who don't _go to bed_ on a pile of gold like some great ruddy dragon, a Galleon's a good wager. Are you in, or out?”

 

“ _Out_ ,” Hermione snapped, waspishly.

 

“In,” Draco disagreed. “Go get Weaselette, I'm sure she'll want to join.”

 

Ron nodded and weaved through the crowd as Hermione scowled bitterly up at her husband. “I hate every last one of you,” she declared, and he just smiled serenely in response.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Two hours later, when Blaise was skulking back into the ballroom – and from the looks of the scowl on his face, none the happier for having indulged Luna's eccentricities – Ginny flung her hands out and grasped everyone that she could reach and shook them, barely able to contain her glee. “Oh, Merlin, he's back,” she hissed, a wide, almost-inhuman grin on her face. “Someone find Luna, I need the inside track on this story _immediately_.”

 

She darted through the crowd towards the door Blaise had snuck in through, and Harry rubbed his aching arm as she released it. “She's not even working at the _Prophet_ yet and she's already talking like some American newsie,” he muttered, wincing as he rubbed his bicep.

 

“Yet, _somehow_ , I think it's more fitting for her personality than anything else she's _ever_ said,” Susan said, thoughtfully.

 

Hermione cast a numbing charm on Harry's arm, and he swallowed a yelp as it sent tingles down the length of it. She grinned cheekily up at him as he said, voice _dry as high hell_ , “ _Thank_ you. So much.”

 

“Looked like it was troubling you.”

 

“Can you do anything about the pain in my _arse_?” he asked, pointedly flicking his eyes over her. Seconds later, he was cursing quietly through his teeth as tingles spread through his butt, resisting the urge to reach down and clutch at it to make sure it was still there.

 

All innocence, Hermione asked, “Better?”

 

“I'm going to _gut_ you,” he ground out, angling himself a bit so only the wall would be witness to him trying to rub some life back into his buttcheeks.

 

He was still walking funny when they filed into the Floo sometime after midnight.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

In the end, she'd sent an owl to the Indian Consulate. Then, stricken by curiosity, she'd sent identical ones all over the world – the Americas, Asia, even Australia (because who knew?). She prayed one of them would have an answer that she could actually use.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“What's wrong?”

 

Hermione buried her face in her pillow. She knew that question was coming. For the first time since Draco had started sleeping over, he'd gotten up _first_. And now, an hour later and nearing eight, she hadn't even gotten up to use the _loo_. “Nothing.”

 

“You're never in bed this late,” he said, suspiciously. He padded towards her and murmured a diagnostic spell at her back. “You're not even sick,” he accused.

 

“Maybe I'm sick. Of _you_ ,” she grumbled.

 

There was a pregnant pause before the bed suddenly dipped beneath his weight. She squeaked as she rolled back against his knee, and squawked loudly when he flopped on top of her, all _twelve stones_ of him radiating that abominable heat. “Scared of your elocution lessons?” he said, with a wicked sense of glee. He'd just remembered that it was _Saturday_ , the first day that Hermione was to spend at the manor getting 'properly socialized'. “I can teach you a charm that will keep a book balanced on your head through a hurricane.”

 

“Shut up,” she wheezed, struggling to get out from under him. “And get _off_ , you weigh a _thousand stone_.” He became floppier in response, spreading his limbs out over her to make her escape harder. “And I'm certainly not scared of _your_ father.”

 

“Oh, yes. Yes, you _are_ ,” he crowed. “You're scared he's going to proclaim you completely mannerless and drop you as his protege.”

 

“I could _give a fig_ if he kept me on as his protege,” she snarled. It may have been true, once, but now she marveled at the fact that it tasted like a lie in her mouth. “He's an awful teacher, anyway. He's not taught me a single thing in all this time.”

 

Draco clucked thoughtfully. “Well, he taught you _shame_ , and I was pretty sure we all thought _that_ was impossi— _hnph!_ ” he grunted, as he landed on the floor.

 

“Finish that thought at your own risk,” she warned, and swiftly swung her feet over the side and used his body as a stepping stool to the ground. He grunted again, but ruined her victory by grabbing her feet and tripping her.

 

In the resulting scuffle, he pinned her, his grin light and breathless.

 

She pressed her lips together to keep from instinctively smiling back, and made a face at him. Laughing warmly, he kissed her, smoothing a hand up her thigh to pull her knee tightly about his waist. “How much longer before you have to be there?”

 

“About ten minutes,” she murmured, smirking a bit when he groaned. “So get off, or I'll tell him that _you_ made me late.”

 

“Cruel. Heartless,” he muttered, pushing to his feet. “When do you come back?”

 

“Who knows? I guess you'll just have to wait here,” she said, brightly, as he helped her up. “And I'm pretty sure that if you don't shag me the second I walk back in, I won't be in the mood anymore, so I _guess_ you'll just have to wait here _ready to go_ until I return.”

 

He gaped at her. “That would _kill me_. It could be _hours_!”

 

“Where's your dedication, Draco?” she crooned, turning towards the closet to grab one of the nice dresses – Lucius had been quite clear that she was _not_ to arrive for her lessons in 'those hideous jean-things,' as part of her training was learning to _dress_ the role.

 

Draco watched her dress, hungrily. “And if I do it? What do I get?” he asked, keenly.

 

She chewed on her lower lip, not _quite sure_ about offering this part. A part of her was very interested in the idea, these days, although the part of her that was made nervous by the notion was still very much present. “Maybe some of those silk ropes,” she said, casually, and she saw him jolt abruptly to attention out of the corner of her eye.

 

“ _Maybe_?” he repeated, eyes narrowing a bit.

 

“That's a sight better than the 'no' you were getting a few months ago,” she reminded him, primly, and his nose wrinkled when he realized that he was willing to take a 'maybe', after all. As soon as she got her dress on and spelled the zipper up, she crossed the room towards him.

 

He stared down at her as she folded her hands over his bare sides, almost territorial, in a way. She slid them down his hips. “Should be back somewhere between one and four hours.”

 

“You're going to kill me,” he whispered, but she knew in that instant that he would do it. She felt a thrill of warmth shoot through her at the prospect, her toes curling a bit against the hardwood floor. Smiling widely, she leaned forward to kiss him, relishing the feel of his half-arousal against her belly. Then, feeling a very profound sense of pleasure, she pulled away and fixed up her hair, leaving him panting a bit as she marched out of the room and towards the Floo.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“You're the brightest witch of your age,” Lucius was repeating, growing more and more irritated. It had been two hours. “I _do not understand_ what you are failing to grasp about this exercise.”

 

“Why do we have to be all cloak and dagger about it, anyway?” she demanded, huffing a bit as she slouched in her chair. When he glared at her, she slouched _harder_ , feeling a prickle of satisfaction at annoying him _on purpose_ this time. “It's a _fundraiser_. They know we're after their money. Why not just ask them if they'll donate for the cause? I mean, they _showed up_ , didn't they?”

 

He was pinching the bridge of his nose again, looking so openly frustrated that she might have marveled at the sight – had she not been so testy herself, that is. She couldn't remember the last time he'd worn his emotions so plainly.

  
Or if he ever had, really.

 

“Because you have to _offer_ them something,” he muttered. “Otherwise you're just trying to take their money.”

 

“They're the ones at the fundraiser! They're there to _donate_!” she defended, shrilly.

 

“No, they're _not_ ,” he snapped, effectively silencing her as he lifted his head to pin her with a hard stare. “Alright. I see where the _misunderstanding_ lies – Hermione, no one attends a fundraiser with the intent of parting with their money for a cause they believe in. None of them _believe in the cause_.” Her jaw dropped, but he did nothing to gentle the harshness of the truth. “It is a _social_ function, wherein their value is being measured among their peers. That value can come in one of many ways, but the way we _want it to manifest_ is for them to show off their wealth by dumping as much money into the cause they couldn't care less about as humanly possible.”

 

He spread his hands, almost beseeching. “Do you understand, now?”

 

She just stared at him. “No.”

 

He dropped his forehead into his hand. Looking back on this moment years later, Hermione would tell her husband of six years that she'd made his father facepalm, once, and Draco would laugh and tell her to quit lying, as she wasn't any good at it.

 

“ _What_ do you not understand?” he asked, his voice carefully even.

 

“All of it. I mean-- Just, why?” she demanded. She knew it was stupid, but she was beginning to feel a little _offended_ by the notion – that the only thing lying between _war orphans_ and much-needed funds was how important she made some rich slob feel about giving their wealth to a perfectly worthy cause. “That's absolutely revolting. Why would they show up if they don't _care_?”

 

“Because it's fashionable to look as though you care,” he said, and he could tell _instantly_ that this wasn't the right response. He held up a hand to forestall what was undoubtedly a rant of epic proportions, and said, slowly, “That should not be unexpected, considering what you know of the elite circles.”

 

“It's perfectly awful.”

 

“Yes,” he agreed, flatly. “If you would like to continue floundering along without any sort of financial means to push along your little projects, then, by all means, continue clinging to your moral high ground. I was under the impression that you wanted _change_.”

 

She fidgeted, uncomfortable. “I do. But--”

 

He leaned towards her, and she clammed up. His eyes were lit with some sort of fire – not anger, not the zealous insanity of a Death Eater, but with _passion_. Lucius Malfoy was a creature built for the world of politics. He thrived in it. He soaked it in and ate it up like it was the finest petit fours. And he loved every minute of it.

 

And she, she realized, was sitting there and stomping all over his passions like an angry child. She could see, suddenly, why he was getting so annoyed.

 

“But what, Hermione?” he said, softly, but there was a whip-like snap to his tone that made her wince and press back into her chair. “You wanted to play the game. I'm outlining the rules that you play by. You can make up all the new, righteous rules that you want, but it doesn't _change the fact_ that the rest of the world is playing by the rules I'm explaining to you. You can choose not to abide by these rules, but you _cannot_ sit there and act like a naïve, confused child when you realize that you're not winning. You're simply not dim enough.”

 

She swallowed. He'd once commended her for her skills in upbraiding, but he was no slouch there, himself: she felt about a centimeter tall under the brunt weight of his condemnation.

 

“I require a response,” he added, flatly, and she flinched, feeling _every inch_ the recalcitrant and rebellious teenage daughter.

 

Shifting uncomfortably, she forced herself to meet his eyes – the first part of their lesson had been about eye contact and body language – and muttered, “I understand.”

 

“I know you do,” he said, and there was no reprieve, there. She'd never felt so utterly scolded in her whole life. Not even _Snape_ had dressed her down this thoroughly – or, if he had, it hadn't stung quite as much because Snape hadn't really had any expectations of her, anyway. “I believe this lesson has reached its natural conclusion. When you return next week, I expect the pupil you strove to be at Hogwarts, and no less.”

 

“Remind me to give Draco a hug when I get home,” she muttered under her breath as she stood. The sharp look Lucius shot her told her that he'd _definitely_ heard, although he did not dignify it with a response.

 

Still, that small piece of rebellion gave her a petty sense of satisfaction on her way to his Floo.

 

 

 


	71. Curiosity Killed The Cat

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy One: Curiosity Killed The Cat**

 

…

 

She spent the short Floo-ride home thinking _extremely uncharitable_ thoughts about Lucius Malfoy, like what a prick he was, and how he was such a bossy little snit all the time. When she stepped through into her living room, she was opening her mouth to complain to Draco about what a complete _arsehole_ his father was.

 

She didn't get so much as a syllable out before he slammed into her, his mouth hot on hers as he flattened her against the wall, pressing the full length of his body against her.

 

Having completely forgotten about their little agreement in the two and a half hours she'd spent getting psychologically torn to pieces at the hands of his father, Hermione could do little but squeak in helpless surprise as Draco ran his hands greedily over every inch of her that he could reach. If he sensed her shock, he didn't let it deter him from his single-minded goal of shagging her rotten. She could feel the hard length of him pressing into her stomach, demanding and desperate.

 

As she recovered from her surprise, she chuckled against his lips. He transferred his open-mouthed kisses to her neck. “Don't you want--” He kissed her again, grumbling wordlessly – probably asking, without words, that she not _talk_ and ruin everything – and she giggled again.

 

Pulling back, she smiled up at him. She couldn't believe he'd honestly made it two and a half _hours_.

 

Of course, she didn't know that he was aroused that entire time. But on the other hand, he couldn't have known when she'd be home, and he was certainly _good and ready_. “Didn't you want to wait for the ropes?”

 

“ _Wait_?” he demanded, his eyes widening incredulously. “Merlin's bol-- _no_.”

 

He turned her from the wall, and considered his options for just a half-second before pushing her towards the couch. She stumbled into it, still laughing as he tried to paw her dress off and undo his pants simultaneously. “You can't even make it to the _bedroom_?”

 

“No, I bloody well can _not_ ,” he growled, and gave up on their clothes to cover her with his body, nipping at her throat a bit in either punishment or warning.

 

Taking pity on him, she reached down and palmed him through his pants. He made a ragged noise, like a dying animal, and she felt the enormous, electric thrill of power shoot through her. “Shh,” she soothed, feeling the _tiniest_ bit smug – she still remembered, with vivid clarity, that time he'd teased her through her jeans on the couch. She rubbed him through his pants, slow and hard, and felt his hips jerk against her hand. Above her, he became very still, his eyes closing as he soaked in the sensation.

 

When it became clear that she wasn't speeding up or moving to undo his pants, he groaned. “Don't tease me,” he pleaded, his voice a little hoarse.

 

“I believe it's a Slytherin house saying – how does it go? 'Payback's a bitch'?” she asked, all bright and cheery innocence.

 

Draco moaned, and she sat up, pushing him slowly off of her and settling him against the arm of the couch. His legs were spread before her, one foot on the ground. It only took him a second to start reaching for her.

 

“Hands up,” she said, suddenly, and he froze, staring at her. “Up by your head. Sink down a bit.”

 

“Hermione,” he tried again, barely a whisper. When she simply cocked an eyebrow, unrelenting, he groaned in pure misery before slouching down the couch a little and tucking his shaking hands behind his head. His mercurial eyes were locked on her hands – the one still slowly rubbing him through his pants and the one reaching up to unbutton his shirt.

 

It was slow going, one-handed, but she finally got it undone. Bouncing her eyebrows a bit at him, she leaned forward and pressed heated kisses along his chest. The hand on his erection never stopped.

 

“I'm going to die,” he muttered, sounding strained. He honestly couldn't figure out if this slow torture was better or worse than the waiting.

 

She hummed in an agreeing tone, and proceeded to take her sweet time in kissing every inch of bared flesh she could find. He hissed when her teeth closed on his nipple, his back arching. He made an almost-sweet little whimpering noise when she nipped at his collarbone and the side of his neck. When his arms were shaking with the sheer effort it took to keep his hands behind his head, she began to rub him harder and faster.

 

He jerked a bit. “Not in my pants,” he gasped. “Please. In you.”

 

“Where in me?”

 

“Oh, sweet _Circe,_ it is so bloody sexy when you talk like that,” he hissed, his legs tensing with his efforts to keep from coming right in his trousers. “In-- In your-- _Fuck_ \--” He couldn't think straight, and the decision was a hard one. “Get your dress off.”

 

“I'll tell you what,” she offered, and she didn't slow down. She could feel him tensing, and knew the inevitable was coming, despite his best efforts. “I'm going to go ahead and make you ruin your pants. Then we can go out and get those ropes and you...” She brushed her lips over his, catching his moan against them. “Can figure out how you're going to pay me back.”

 

“Damn you,” he gasped, and then dropped his head back. His hands flew forward to grasp at her shoulders, almost as if he needed some sort of anchor to keep him straight as he came.

 

She rubbed him through it, slowing down as his body gradually relaxed and the fabric between his legs became damp.

 

Languidly, she kissed him. He was slack beneath her, barely able to respond.

 

After a few minutes, he roused enough to warn her: “You have no idea the scale of the war you have just initiated.” His eyes were still closed.

 

“Mm. Worth it,” she decided, grinning.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Vassal,” Ginny called, loftily. Gritting her teeth, Hermione ignored her and tried to focus on her book. Ginny cleared her throat delicately. “Oh, _vassal_.” When that failed to garner a response, she picked up a woven-straw coaster and flung it at Hermione's head.

 

“Ow!” Hermione hissed, watching the coaster bounce onto the carpet. “ _Ginny_.”

 

The redhead waved her hand airily towards the kitchen. “We desire a biscuit,” she intoned, her free hand resting on her swollen belly. “Go and fetch it to us. And make quick of it.”

 

“I'm not _fetching_ you food,” Hermione grumbled. “And _stop_ calling me 'vassal.'”

 

“But _Hermione_ ,” Ginny whined. “Look at how big I am. If I try to get up, I'll fall down right on my stomach and squish my half-baby out of me like a tube of toothpaste.”

 

Shooting her a glare, Hermione pursed her lips. “You'll get bedsores if you insist on lazing about the house for the remainder of your pregnancy,” she reminded her. “And you're mad if you think any of us are going to just wait on you _hand-and-foot_ because you happen to be expecting--”

 

Harry walked in, covered in winter-defying layers. He'd just returned from walking James to the daycare center.

 

As he was shouldering off his coat, Ginny demanded, “Biscuits.”

 

“Alright,” he agreed, amicably, and Hermione scowled at the grinning redhead. He kicked his boots off and meandered into the kitchen, tugging the scarf off his neck. “Is Albus _still_ napping?”

 

“I wonder who he learned such a stunning display of _laziness_ from,” Hermione scoffed, shooting Ginny a sharp look. For her part, Ginny looked perfectly unruffled by her friend's judgment as Harry returned and passed her a plate of biscuits. She balanced the plate on her tummy and nibbled on one with a sigh of contentment.

 

Harry shot Hermione a lazy smile as he headed back to the coat rack to finish taking off his coat. “You know, when you're pregnant, I bet you get Draco to do everything for you.”

 

“Absolutely not. I would despise feeling so helpless,” she huffed.

 

“Yeah. Helpless. _That's_ what I'm feeling,” Ginny snorted, starting in on her second biscuit. “Where is Draco, anyway?”

 

“Shopping,” Hermione said, quickly averting her gaze back to her book. He was shopping for _silk rope_ , and she really hoped her face wouldn't betray that fact. Better to let it sound like the boring kind of clothes shopping she usually eschewed.

 

Incredulous, Harry dropped himself into the armchair. “For _what_? The bloke doesn't have enough _clothes_? I don't think I've seen him repeat an outfit _once_ in all these months.”

 

“I heard he burns them after wearing them,” Ginny stage-whispered. “So that he can never accidentally don them together again and bring shame to the family name.”

 

“Oh, said the two lunatics who have two of _every kind of broom,_ ” Hermione defended, testily.

 

“Woah, woah,” Harry said, raising his hands.

 

“Yeah, brooms are different,” Ginny agreed, scoffing at Hermione's ignorance. “I mean, are you really going to sit there and say a _Firebolt_ is a riding experience comparable to a _Nimbus_? Firebolts are for speed, but Nimbuses are for maneuvering, and don't even get me _started_ on the Cloudrunners--”

 

“Oh, my God, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.” Hermione covered her ears up, groaning. “All brooms are the same. Stop it. Any attempt to make you think differently is just incredibly clever marketing.”

 

“Kind of like books. I mean, when you get down to it,” Ginny murmured, eyes narrowed. “All books really are the same. Any attempt to make you think differently is just incredibly clever marketing. I mean, have you _seen_ a book? They all re-use the _same words_.”

 

Glaring steadily at her, Hermione picked her book back up and pointedly returned her attention to it.

 

After a smug moment of silence, Ginny asked, “So what's he getting new clothes for?”

 

Uh.

 

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Hermione buried her nose a little further in the book. “Who knows?” She knew her face was turning red.

 

She wasn't so buried in the book that she missed the way Harry and Ginny's heads turned just slightly towards each other. She could imagine the look they were sharing, equal parts intrigue and delight. It was a testimony to Ginny's gossip-mongering nature that she actually straightened up from the couch, setting her plate of biscuits aside. “Hermione...”

 

“I should be running,” Hermione announced, jumping to her feet. “Thanks for lunch, hey?”

 

“Grab her!” Ginny yelled, struggling to push up to her feet from the low-seated couch. Harry bolted to his feet as Hermione screamed and sprinted for the Floo.

 

She threw the powder in, but as she was yelling her flat into the green flames, their arms folded around her and dragged her back. She screamed bloody murder, ignoring Harry's chiding reminder that _somewhere_ in the house, Albus was trying to _sleep._ She kicked and flailed, but Ginny had a monstrous sense of strength even six months pregnant, dragging her back to the couch and sitting on her. Harry followed suit, lounging on her legs as Ginny pinned her torso.

 

The screaming quickly died away as she struggled, wheezing. “You're going to _squish me flat_ ,” she gasped.

 

“What's he need the clothes for, Hermione?” Ginny demanded. “I can sit here all day.”

 

“I _know_ you can, you _elephant_ ,” Hermione shot back, throwing herself up with all of her strength. Harry and Ginny rocked back and forth a bit, looking boredly on as she struggled to dislodge them even a little.

 

Ginny poked her in the neck, and Hermione scrunched her shoulder up to protect it. She poked the other side, and Hermione squealed and kicked out weakly, unable to protect herself. “What are the clothes for, Hermione?” Ginny repeated, digging her fingers into the bushy-haired witch's armpits and what she could reach of her sides. “What are they for? Tell me! Tell me!”

 

“I'm going to _pee_ on your _couch_!” Hermione warned, gasping and twisting about. “Harry!”

 

“I _would_ help, but, you see, I'm just as curious as she is,” Harry said, apologetically. “Is he going undercover as a clown, or something? I've always wanted to see that. Oh, or a homeless person. Is he buying a costume, Hermione?”

 

Hermione couldn't even formulate a response for a minute, thanks to Ginny's poking tickles. Finally, she was able to wheeze, “Sod you both.”

 

They both looked at each other again, Ginny offering her husband a faint nod. Then, the poking began.

 

Five minutes later, when she was too weak to even respond to the tickling, she was proud to say that she had not cracked. Harry tried digging into her side, again, but when she just twitched a bit, he sighed and gave up. “It's got to be a _really good one_ ,” he murmured, thoughtfully. “But what I can't tell is if it's more _hilarious_ or _embarrassing_.”

 

“Maybe he's getting her lingerie.”

 

“Oh, bleh,” Harry said, nose wrinkling a bit. “I think I could do without thinking about that.”

 

“Get off,” Hermione groaned from beneath them.

 

“I _do_ think we are squishing her,” Harry added, a bit more sympathetically. Ginny sighed, long-suffering, but rolled off and up to her feet.

 

Hermione gasped for air, her face reddening a bit.

 

“Oh, shut up,” Ginny huffed, shooting Harry a sharp look when he began to laugh. He quickly morphed the noise into a series of coughs, standing up as well. The redhead surveyed her friend for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Well, you won this round. But I'll get to the bottom of it, eventually. You _know_ I will. You can hide, Draco can lie, but I'll sniff this out if it takes me _ten years_.”

 

Sitting up and rubbing some life back into her thighs, Hermione glared up at her. “I might've told you _eventually_ , but now I'll never tell you, just out of _spite_.”

 

“The game is on, then. Hey, also, the Weasley Christmas party is the Sunday before Christmas.”

 

She nodded, remembering the owl she'd gotten from Molly earlier that week. “I remember. We're going,” she assured her. “Draco doesn't leave for France until Christmas Eve. I guess the Malfoy family does some posh party, or something.”

 

“You're not going?” Harry asked, cocking his head a bit.

 

She grimaced. “He's not sure it's a good idea. He said that his family was actually one of the more liberal and tolerant branches of the Malfoy clan, if you can believe _that_.”

 

Harry stared at her, blankly. After a long moment digesting that, he said, “Well, _that's_ freshly horrifying to learn. Great. So you're going to your parents, then?”

 

She nodded, scooping up her book. She was pretty sure Draco was back, by now. “Yeah, same old, same old,” she said, but the smile on her face didn't quite match the lethargy in her tone. After that Christmas in seventh year, she didn't think she'd ever think of spending the holiday with her parents boring again. “Are you doing anything for New Year's?”

 

Ginny laughed. “We thought we'd shake things up this year and spend it sleeping, actually,” she admitted. “Maybe we _are_ getting old. But, you know, it's your first New Year's as a couple with Draco. You should find something romantic to do.”

 

Hermione grunted, frowning. “Draco's idea of romantic _usually_ involves heights. No, thank you.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

As it turned out, she did beat him home, and spent about an hour puttering about the kitchen before she heard the Floo roar to life. Wiping her wet hands on a dish-towel, she headed for the living room, eying the little bag in his hand with equal parts trepidation and excitement. “Did you find it?”

 

He huffed in faux-offense. “Who, exactly, do you think you're talking to?”

 

Chuckling softly, she moved towards him. “So. About this.” She pointed at the bag. “I've been doing some research, and--”

 

“Oh, _no_ ,” he groaned, collapsing dramatically on the couch, face-first.

 

“Oh, shut up. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly and safely, or we're just not going to do it at all, Draco, don't you test me on thi--”

 

“Al _right_ ,” he interrupted, twisting around a bit to face her. “I'm ready for a series of boring lectures on proper knots and sex safety and every other thing you can possibly insert into this to make it as tedious as possible.”

 

Glaring, she dropped the damp dish-towel on his head, smiling placidly as he tore it off of himself with a scowl. “I think the first thing we should talk about is a safe-word.”

 

“I know about safe-words,” he responded, surprising her.

 

Cocking her head, Hermione circled the couch and sat. He lifted his legs up to make room for her and then draped them over her lap. “You do? Did you pick up a book about it, or something?”

 

Folding his hands behind his head, he shrugged. “Read about it on that internets you showed me.”

 

Of course.

 

Well, she supposed that _did_ make this whole conversation easier, then. “Alright, well. Good. So anyway, you understand that if I say the safe-word, you have to stop, right? So you know that if I say 'no,' or 'stop,' it's all kind of... part of the game, or something. Only the safe-word really means 'stop.'” He was nodding, looking bored already, so she moved on. “And yes, I _did_ look up knots. I don't want to get welts on my wrists because you tied a shoddy knot.”

 

“What makes you think I don't already know how to tie knots?” he demanded, indignant.

 

Her eyebrows shot up in open incredulity. “ _Do_ you?” she asked, primly. Because Draco didn't exactly strike her as the _sailing_ type.

 

“I _could._ ”

 

“Oh, for God's sake,” she muttered, rolling her eyes heavenwards. “Anyway. You're practicing your knots before you put those things on me, and don't think you aren't.”

 

He picked the bag up, pulling out a small package wrapped in tissue. It looked far too small for a bag of that size, to be honest. “Actually, they don't even need knots.” Raising an eyebrow, he drawled, “Forgot about us living in a literal world of magic, again, did you?”

 

Blinking, she tried to wrap her mind around _magical BDSM_ and found that she really couldn't.

 

Sitting up, Draco pulled the tissues off the box and opened it, revealing four silk cords that already had loops formed out of them. Pulling out his wand, he smirked at her and tapped it to the cords, whispering, “ _Strictus_.” The loops shrunk, and, finding nothing in their path, kept shrinking until barely an inch was between them. He tapped them again, whispering: “ _Solvus_.” They returned to their normal size.

 

Offering them to her to play with, he added, “Actually, they can be bonded to your safe-word so that they'll come undone automatically when anyone says it. Handy for when you can't get your wand.”

 

Hermione stared at the cords. “Is there _seriously_ some sort of BDSM community in Wizarding London?” she demanded, somehow still unable to believe it. “Where? I've never seen a _shop_ for that sort of stuff in Diagon Alley.”

 

“Why in Merlin's name would a sex shop be in Diagon Alley? You go to Knockturn for stuff like that.”

 

Oh. Wow.

 

Shaking her head a bit, she said, “Alright, I guess that's... I mean, I don't have anything else to bring up, do you?” He shook his head, lifting the bag a bit carefully, and her eyes narrowed. “Is there something else in there?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Let me see it.”

 

“No,” he denied, standing and taking the bag with him. “I'm saving it. One step at a time, Hermione. Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?”

 

“Satisfaction brought it back,” she finished, deadpan. “When are you going to show me?”

 

He smiled as he glanced in the bag. “Christmas, maybe.” He shrunk the bag and tucked it into an inside pocket on his coat, and she tried to memorize where exactly he'd put it. Catching her gaze, he made a _tsk_ ing noise. “Do _not_ go snooping around for it. Promise me.”

 

Hermione's nose wrinkled obstinately, but he just glared at her until she caved. “Al _right_.” Gathering the silk cords in her hand, she stood.

 

She half-turned for the hallway to the bedroom, and paused. “Should we— Ack!”

 

He pushed her down the hallway, and it was momentum alone that kept her stumbling forward and not just ending up flat on her face. “Okay-- Draco! Okay!” she exclaimed, half-laughing as he turned her into the bedroom and shooed her for the bed. “You could have just said 'yes.' I would have gone.”

 

“Not nearly quick enough, I know _that_ much,” he muttered, trying to hide the grin threatening to erupt on his face. “What's the safe-word going to be?”

 

She dropped onto the bed, her mind going blank for a moment. “Uh...”

 

“Hufflepuff.”

 

She scoffed, frowning up at him. “ _Hufflepuff_?”

 

He spread his hands. “Can _you_ imagine a scenario in which you'd naturally say that word during all this?”

 

“I wouldn't say _parapsychology_ , either, but--”

 

“Too long and hard to remember. Hufflepuff,” he decided, reaching for her shirt. “Off. Off, off.”

 

“You are such a brat,” she said, waspishly, and pulled her shirt off over her head. With his help, she was undressed in a matter of seconds. “I suppose you're going to stay fully clothed while you torment me,” she guessed, in a dry tone.

 

The flash of a grin was all she needed as an answer. Grumbling, she crawled onto the bed and tried to situate herself somewhere in the middle.

 

He slipped the cords one by one over her wrist, murmuring the charm to tighten them. She waited tensely for them to get too tight, but they stopped right as they were perfectly snug. Experimentally, she gave them a tug. They were actually a lot more comfortable than she'd assumed they would be. When she felt him tap the insides of her ankles, she looked down at him quizzically.

 

“I'm not sure how much explanation you need for this,” he drawled. “But in order to tie your ankles to the posts, they have to be somewhat near them.”

 

“Oh, right,” she muttered, spreading her legs. Even after several months of doing damn near everything with this man, she still felt her face heat a bit at being so bared to him. He made short work of slipping the cords over her ankles and tightening them, and then stepped back to survey his work.

 

Hermione felt her face flush further. After a minute of intense scrutiny, she hissed, “Oh my God. Get on with it. I'm going to kill you.”

 

He smirked, exuding smugness. “The _point_ is to torment you. Remember?”

 

Groaning, she dropped her head back against the pillow. “You're an arse,” she grumbled, shifting a bit – of course, now that she couldn't move, she'd developed a devilish itch on her back. There was no give in the cords at all. And she was at his mercy, for the moment, since they hadn't bonded the cords to her safe-word, yet.

 

“Mm,” he agreed, propping a knee on the bed between her legs. His fingers trailed up the insides of her thighs, and she shivered a bit. “How's this for a plan? I tease you until you're begging for it, and then I give it to you until you're begging me to stop. I've become rather enamored with the prospect of you begging,” he admitted. Catching her mulish expression, he smiled. “You will, of course, beg. A lot. And I'll be happy to remind you about it every day for the rest of your life.”

 

Remaining stubbornly silent – not wanting to give him the satisfaction of denying it – she tried to focus on getting comfortable, since she was apparently going to be like this for a while.

 

The smug sense of self-satisfaction only intensified when she glared silently at him, and he brushed a finger over her, causing her to jolt fantastically. He turned his hand, scraping his nails gently across her lips, and she slowly drew her lower lip between her teeth and began chewing on it. “Oh, yes,” he sighed. “I like this a _lot_.”

 

His eyes traveled up her body, landing on her face and staying locked there as he slowly drug his finger up and down the length of her slit, until it finally slipped in. She wriggled her hips a bit, swallowing a soft moan.

 

Draco's eyes didn't leave her face for a second as he slowly circled her clit with his finger. She wasn't sure how many minutes passed with him barely touching her, but after a while – it was at _least_ fifteen minutes, or she was a Crumple Horned Snorkack – she began to make a whining noise in her throat. He pretended not to notice as she strained on her ties a bit, trying to push her hips towards him.

 

“Draco,” she gasped.

 

He cocked an eyebrow, and if she hadn't been tied up, she would have reared up and clawed at him for that superior expression. As it was, though, she couldn't. “Yes, dear?”

 

She moaned, twisting her wrists against the ties a bit. “Stop--” He did, his finger stilling, and she groaned in absolute misery. “ _No!_ Stop teasing!” she corrected herself, thrashing against her ties a bit. The finger started up again, even _slower_ , and she growled in frustration and dropped her head back.

 

“What's the _magic word_?” he purred.

 

“Sod yourself,” she muttered.

 

He _tsk_ ed again. “Shame,” he commented, but it seemed like she was rewarded – his finger sped up, and he added more of them, and she sighed with bliss.

 

The fantasy slowly faded away when she realized that he'd turned up the speed, but was now settled in at it, on perfect cruise control. And it was driving her more insane than the _first_ speed. “ _Draco_ ,” she whimpered. She gave up trying to be stubborn, and added, “Please!”

 

“Mm, I don't think I'm feeling very charitable after you told me to sod myself,” he said, in a placid tone. _Dear God_. His fingers kept circling her clit, fast enough to keep her aching but not nearly fast enough to relieve her.

 

“God, please,” she whimpered, swallowing another aching moan. “ _Please_.”

 

“Keep going,” he suggested.

 

Oh, damn him. Straight to hell. That _arsehole_. “Please,” she ground out, and he sped up just the slightest bit. “Please.” A little more. Catching on quickly, Hermione spat out the rest in a single breath: “ _Please please please please please please please please--_ ”

 

She could feel herself getting there, and only just managed to keep babbling the word through her breathless gasps.

 

Then, when she was on the verge of tipping, he stopped.

 

She moaned, or screamed, or _something_ that sounded like an enraged and dying cougar, and thrashed against her ties like a woman possessed. “Draco! I begged!” she yelled, the ache like a hollow inside of her, begging to be filled or stretched or _anything_.

 

“But, if you'll recall, _right before that_ , you told me to sod myself,” he reminded her.

 

“As soon as my wand is back in my hand, I'm going to hex you so hard you'll be nothing more than a _scorch mark on the floor_ ,” she ranted, her hands curling into useless fists at the corners of the bed.

 

“Hermione, I can promise you that by the time you have ready access to your wand, you are not going to be able to organize a coherent _thought_ , let alone enough of them to hex me.”

 

She had a ready retort on her lips, but swallowed it with a gurgle when he leaned down, his tongue painting a broad stripe between her legs and circling over her clit like a fucking godsend. She came off the bed as much as her ties would allow, and his hands latched onto her hips and forced her back down as he laved his tongue over her. The nature of the game didn't change, though; he'd pull back when she was too close, only to work her up again. She lost track of how many times he did it before she was begging again.

 

Despite his promises, begging didn't seem to help. She was at the end of her mental rope when he finally _didn't_ stop, yanking her hips towards his mouth hungrily and straining her arms a bit. She didn't care. She didn't care at all.

 

She came with a scream, coming off the bed again, and was still riding the high of it when she heard the faint buzzing noise.

 

_What in God's name--_

 

She didn't have time to wonder where he got a vibrator (God, had he _found hers_? That was so embarrassing) before he pushed it against her, sending her cries into a new and heretofore completely undiscovered pitch. She was sure she was babbling _something_ , but she couldn't rightly tell what it was. It may very well have been gibberish, because Draco sure didn't respond to any of it. He just sat up, leaning on his elbow over her thigh to help pin her in place as he worked the vibrator around, watching in open fascination as she reacted helplessly to it.

 

The second one hit her like a tsunami, and each subsequent one felt like another wave sucking her under just as she came in sight of the shore. She was a sobbing mess before long, her thoughts scattered in every direction.

 

What was her safe-word again?

 

Just as she was struggling to recall it, Draco seemed to sense her exhaustion and clicked the vibrator off. The sudden loss of sensation was just as stunning as the sudden introduction of it, and she sagged against the bed, feeling tingly all over.

 

She was dimly aware of her cords coming loose with a whisper from him, of him divesting himself of his clothes.

 

He gathered her in his arms, pulling her into his lap, aiming himself. He slid into her, and she whined, the sensory overload making her shake a bit. Draco groaned, low in his throat, helplessly aroused by the noise. He clasped his hands around her arse and rolled her hips against him, grinding her against him so that every motion forward hit her clit and made her jerk and gasp and whimper. She slumped against him, her face buried in the crook of his neck as he bore her down on him over and over, relentless.

 

He seemed to be waiting for something, although she didn't figure out what until she came one last time, with a trembling cry. With a few hard jerks of his hips, he did, too, clutching her against him.

 

She was half-asleep when he finally shifted a bit. “Okay?” he whispered.

 

She mumbled something that was vaguely affirmative, boneless against him, and didn't protest when he gently rolled them both over and laid her down on her side. She watched him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes as he smoothed a sweaty curl back from her temple. When his eyes found hers, again, they lit up and he surged forward and kissed her.

 

Hermione felt almost too weak to move, but lifted a hand and curled it around his neck, returning the kiss gladly.

 

She didn't remember falling asleep, but she did remember feeling happy.

 


	72. Satisfaction Brought It Back

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Two: Satisfaction Brought It Back**

 

…

 

She heard from the Indian consulate first.

 

_Mrs. Malfoy,_

 

_I admit to being a little bewildered by your interest in the matter of werewolves. We do not have many in India. A law that was passed three hundred years ago forbade procreation with werewolves. It has since been overturned as inhumane, but it minimized the existing population within the country, as many left for Europe, as you may already know._

 

_I don't know of any cures or potions to deal with such an affliction. I'm sorry I cannot personally be of more assistance. However, I have sent correspondence to a friend of mine in India who may know more about the subject and asked that he contact you._

 

_His name is Aditya Kapadne. I wish you luck in your venture._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Jiya Malhotra_

 

As it happened, Hermione had _not_ known about any sort of mass exodus of werewolves to Europe three centuries ago. If there was one thing she hadn't anticipated while working on this problem, it was discovering that she'd _under-researched_. Whatever research she'd done on werewolves hadn't really focused on their history, mostly because she'd assumed that none of it was written down. Maybe working at the Ministry instead of helping Harry stop the literal end of the world was making her lose her touch.

 

The Russians response arrived next, with the terse answer that werewolves were 'destroyed by fire' upon discovery. So, that was a nice draconian reminder of how terrible the world was, generally speaking.

 

The Australians didn't have laws regarding werewolves, being a fairly new-ish country magically. If there were any around, they weren't registered and obviously weren't being hunted or otherwise contained (she suddenly began to wonder just how many mysterious deaths on that continent could truthfully be attributed to an out-of-control werewolf, actually). The United States of America didn't respond at all, perhaps considering her inquiry to either be beneath their notice or utterly presumptuous. Given their policies in general, Hermione wouldn't have been surprised if she learned that they had much the same attitude as Australia.

 

The Brazilians responded with enthusiasm, stating that werewolves certainly lived there in their own colonies and governed themselves. She probably found that the most interesting, and responded promptly with more questions. She wrote to one of the colonies, too, but somehow she doubted she'd receive a response.

 

It was Egypt that finally had a response she could use.

 

_Mrs. Malfoy,_

 

_I would be happy to discuss the subject. Although werewolves are not recognized as full citizens, they are given rations of bhangija, an herbal mixture that is steeped in water and then drunk. Unfortunately, I do not know the proprietary ingredients of the mixture; we import it. As far as I'm aware, it is drunk on a daily basis and dulls transformation. We have not had an incident since the drink's introduction over sixty years ago._

 

_I have attached in this letter the business cards of personnel within the import-export company. Perhaps they can assist you._

 

_My thanks,_

 

_Salim Youssef_

 

“What's it say?” Hermione jumped a bit as Draco leaned on the back of her chair, gnawing on a piece of toast. He was largely disinterested in the cause, except for a mild interest in the possibility of a solution (and the fact that his wife was absolutely batty over the riddle of it all), but even he couldn't resist wondering if there was some golden cure no one had ever thought of.

 

She took a deep breath. “It seems like there's... a tea, of some sort, that they use,” she said, softly. “It has to be drunk every day. And they don't know what's in it. It's imported.”

 

“Bhangija,” he sounded out. “What is that? Indian?”

 

Hermione turned to squint at him. “What? How would I know that?”

 

“I thought you knew everything.”

 

“Oh, get out,” she huffed, shuffling her letters back into some semblance of order as she prepared to stand. “I've got to get ready for work, anyway. I have a lot to do before the hols officially start. You remember the Weasley party is this weekend, right?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yessss,” he droned, turning to wander into the living room.

 

“And you'll _behave_.”

 

“Well, I'll certainly be in attendance,” he said, in an agreeable tone, and she narrowed her eyes at his back before heading to her room to change. He hadn't mentioned anything about a 'Malfoy Christmas,' so she had to assume that they didn't _have_ one – or maybe the Christmas Eve party with the family of angry Muggle-haters counted. She didn't know.

 

Either way, she had one last day at work to get everything done that needed to be done before she had to spend two weeks away from it all.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Boop! It's the Time To Go Fairy,” Harry announced, bopping her on the head. She grumbled, low in her throat, and he bopped her again. “Boop! Boop! Time to bloody _go_ , Hermione. You're not going to sit here until God knows when. The work'll still be here when you get back.”

 

“Yes, that's the _problem_ ,” she muttered. “I need it to not be.”

 

“If you're asking me to set fire to it, I can arrange for that.” He chuckled when she threw her hands protectively over all the papers and turned her head to glare at him from over her shoulder. Rolling his eyes a bit, he repeated, “I mean it, let's go. Draco said I wasn't allowed to leave without you, and I'm sure as hell not staying here until nine in the evening. Get up.”

 

Of all the obnoxious... “Do everything Draco says, now, do you?”

 

“I would be happy to let you bait me into defending my fragile masculinity _on the way to the Floo_ ,” he enunciated, through his teeth. “Please do not make me drag you screaming out of your chair. We're both adults and I don't think either of us needs the embarrassment.” She hesitated, and he sighed and stepped towards her, arms extended.

 

“No!” she yelped, drawing back and scrambling for her wand. “Damn you, I'll get up. Just give me five minutes to wrap up.”

 

“ _Two_ minutes, I'm pretty sure you said.” But he turned and left her cubicle, probably to use the loo one final time.

 

She finished up what she was currently working on as rapidly as possible, and set her desk to rights at top speed, well aware that Harry was not making idle threats. He really would drag her out of the chair, like an errant toddler. Ginny had rubbed off on him far too much. When he came back (he'd given her the full five minutes, bless him), she was already up and shrugging into her coat.

 

He watched her put it on, and said, “Luna's coming to stay in London for the holidays.”

 

“Already?” Hermione asked, surprised.

 

Harry nodded. “She wants to spend some, uh, time with Goyle. And she says her hunt isn't going very well, anyway, because the Moon Frogs go dormant in winter, or something.”

 

“She wants to spend time with _Goyle_?” Hermione repeated, her nose wrinkling a bit.

 

He shrugged, helplessly. “She said she thinks it's only right to get to know him and Romilda a bit and try and keep things positive. What with eventually having a baby growing inside of her, and all that. She said she wants to be friends. She _also_ said she was meeting with Blaise Zabini to go hunting for Black-Scaled Cratlocks,” he added, a bit more grimly. “Said he told her he wanted to learn more about her _work_.”

 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Hermione groaned. “He's still--? I swear, boys are stupider than a pile of wet socks.”

 

“Good thing we're so devilishly handsome.”

 

She rolled her eyes, hard, and stepped up to the Floo. “See you at the Weasleys', Sunday? Is Luna going?” When he nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Is _Zabini_ or _Goyle_ going?”

 

He hesitated. “I don't... _think_ so. She didn't mention... anything about... I should probably ask her.”

 

“No Zabini,” she ordered, before stepping through the flames.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It turned out Goyle _was_ going.

 

That was something she found out when she arrived with Draco and saw him there, with Romilda Vane. The woman looked about the same as she had at Hogwarts, although a little thicker around the middle, like she'd either put on some weight or had really jumped head-first into the whole baby thing with Percy, although somehow Hermione doubted that one. Percy, although visibly awkward, seemed to get along with the couple alright – at a glance, anyway.

 

Beside her, Draco skidded to a stop. “What is he doing here,” he said, his voice flat and not like a question at all. When she looked at him, he looked pale and stiff.

 

“I guess Luna invited him. She wants to be friends,” she murmured. Watching him for a long moment, she asked, cautiously: “That's not going to be an issue... is it?”

 

He blinked, and forced himself to relax a smidgen. “Of course not.”

 

Doubtful, she glanced over at Goyle, who was holding Romilda's hand and smiling at something Luna was saying. He really looked a lot sweeter than she remembered, although he definitely still looked a little dim. It was an unkind thought to have, and she chided herself for it. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the thought from existing. “You're sure?”

 

“Very.”

 

He led her into the room, smiling winningly at Molly and Arthur Weasley as they gushed over the two of them. If he noticed Goyle going a little stiff, himself, he didn't acknowledge it at all.

 

They spent the first two hours of the party very successfully avoiding each other, making sure that whatever conversation they were having was taking place across the room from their old friend. Just as Hermione was ready to tear her hair out with frustration, Luna grabbed Goyle by the hand and dragged him over to Draco, a dreamy smile on her face. “Draco, you haven't said hi to Gregory this whole time,” she pointed out. “So I brought him over.”

 

Draco looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. “That... was very thoughtful of you,” he finally managed, sounding a little strangled. “Thank you.”

 

Goyle shifted awkwardly, silent. Beside him, Romilda had tightened her grip on his hand.

 

“Goyle,” Draco said, and the giant started to snap-to before he seemingly realized he wasn't in third year, anymore. They eyed each other for a tense moment before Draco cleared his throat, his gaze dropping first. “It's good to see you.”

 

“Same here,” Goyle muttered, after a moment of hesitation.

 

“Still breeding hippogriffs?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Hermione and Romilda looked between the two of them with twin expressions of discomfort. In fact, the only person who didn't seem to notice the thick layer of awkwardness was Luna – big surprise, there. “It's been so nice to reconnect with Gregory and Romilda,” she said. “Did you know that Draco and Hermione are in love, now?”

 

Hermione flushed bright red as Draco spluttered a bit, indignant. “Alright, Luna, that's enough,” Hermione grit out, as sweetly as she could.

 

The blonde's eyebrows rose a bit. “Don't you think that's interesting to talk about? You used to dislike each other very much, didn't you?”

 

Goyle looked about as surprised by Luna's announcement as Hermione _felt_ , but after a moment, he gave Draco a faint nod, his features relaxing imperceptibly. “Good for you, mate,” he said, quietly and sincerely, and Draco's spluttering slowed to a stop. “You lucked out then, with the pairing.”

 

 _Ha_. Lucked out. That was certainly a funny way of saying _paid off the Ministry as per usual_.

 

Echoing her thoughts, Draco cleared his throat again, looking a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

 

“It's good they won't have to get divorced after they have their children,” Luna noted. “This new generation may end up being very confused about families in comparison to previous ones. By the way, Gregory, we haven't talked about who will predominately raise them.”

 

Goyle looked ready to about die of mortification. Romilda squeezed his hand again and smiled at Luna. “That's a good point,” she said, kindly, and Hermione's jaw almost dislocated from shock. She'd never known Romilda to be kind a day in her life. “Why don't we get some more egg nog and talk about it? Good seeing you, Hermione. Malfoy.”

 

Nodding dumbly, Hermione and Draco just watched as she led both Goyle and Luna away.

 

“I,” Ron announced, from behind them. “Am _sure_ glad I was not caught in the crossfire of _that_ mess. I don't think I've ever felt more uncomfortable on behalf of another person in my whole, entire life.”

 

“It was pure carnage,” Harry intoned, eyes wide. Draco turned to glare at the two of them.

 

“It _was_ pretty brutal,” Susan agreed, threading her arm through Hermione's. She winced, suddenly, patting her protruding stomach. “Oh! He's kicking _again_.”

 

“Oooh!” they all said, in unison, their hands suddenly magnetically drawn to Susan's belly.

 

Hermione's eyes followed Draco's hand, crowded on her belly with all the others, up his arm and to his face. Becoming instantly aware of her scrutiny, he snatched his hand back, his ears and the back of his neck blooming a bright red. “I'll get you more punch,” he muttered, embarrassed, and pivoted to move across the room.

 

Harry's eyes dropped pointedly to Hermione's still-full glass of punch. “I think he might be _dropping hints_.”

 

“In a second, I'm going to drop _you_. Into my knee.”

 

He raised his hands in surrender. Ron shot him a smug look. “Merlin, it feels good to finally have you on the far side of her irritation. What a nice change of pace this is, to not be everyone's favorite target. I think I'll commemorate this day somehow. What's a good name for today? Ron Is Awesome Day?”

 

Harry took a calm sip of his eggnog, nodding placidly. When Ron lifted his glass to take a sip, he slapped the bottom of the cup and sent it all over his face.

 

Ron spluttered, rubbing his face with his Weasley sweater. “Harry! You wanker, it got up my _nose_!”

 

“I'm going to be owing you more of those for the next forty years just to _break even_ with you over that whole vomiting-in-my-mouth thing,” Harry reminded him, grimly satisfied.

 

“That's hardly fair, that was an accident!”

 

“You know who might be interested in hearing you whine? Someone who cares,” Harry offered, brightly. “Do you want me to go find someone? If I head into downtown London right now, I might have a shot of locating someone with the _barest_ interest in--”

 

“Al _right_ ,” Ron growled. “I'll be in the _loo_ if anyone needs me, trying to de-nog myself.”

 

Chuckling softly, Susan waited until Ron was gone before murmuring, “It's a good thing he's probably getting a new sweater today, isn't it?”

 

Draco re-joined them as they were laughing, and handed Hermione a second glass of punch. He hesitated the second he realized she already had one, and then cleared his throat and immediately resolved to ignore it. “What's so funny?”

 

“Nevermind. I'm more interested in what happened between you and Goyle,” Hermione said, narrowing her eyes a bit.

 

He shifted, grimacing slightly. “It's... ancient history, really. No use dragging it up.”

 

“Oh, well, I _have_ to hear this, then,” Harry huffed, turning all of his attention to Draco and lifting his eyebrows, the very picture of polite interest.

 

Shooting him a terse look, Draco scowled. “It's not all that interesting, believe me. We just had a falling out, is all.” They stared at him, expectant, and his scowl intensified. “It happens all the time! There's not _always_ some fantastical story behind everything. People just stop having things in common.”

 

When the stares persisted, he pressed his lips together. “Stop it. None of you are Ginny Weasley. I am a vault.” Harry half-turned, and Draco grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back. “And no getting her, either.”

 

Harry sighed. “Listen, do you _really_ want Ginny to pry it out of you and then tell everyone _her_ version of it? She's been dying to find a reason to insinuate your latent homosexual tendencies, you know, and it's rather well known that you and Goyle were _close_ for several years.” Draco glared at him, and he spread his hands helplessly. “I'm just a messenger. From the near future. Just a harmless, clairvoyant messenger.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “When my father lost prominence in the Dark Lord's circle, things changed. Alright? There's really nothing more to say,” he muttered, bitterly.

 

Hermione frowned. “What--?”

 

“Alright,” Harry said, abruptly, to the shock of the other three. He'd sobered, for some reason, and was regarding Draco with something similar to regret – maybe over bringing it up, at all. Hermione's eyebrows rose a bit, and Harry glanced at her and subtly shook his head. “I can barely keep track of the people _I_ stopped talking to after seventh year, anyway.”

 

She let it drop, and for a second a strange pall hung over the group, no one sure of what to say.

 

Before Ginny bellowed, from the living room: “ _Presents!_ ”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Hermione got mostly books, which she'd come to expect (and thoroughly enjoy) over the years. And, obviously, one ghastly sweater with a big H on it.

 

“Alright, Draco's turn,” Molly announced, and she watched Draco stiffen a bit when he realized he was actually receiving gifts. Why he hadn't expected that, Hermione wasn't sure – he'd brought plenty to give to everyone else, after all. Arthur flicked his wand, and presents began floating out of the diminishing pile beneath the tree, landing gently at Draco's feet.

 

Trying to look nonchalant, he smiled and leaned forward. Most of the boxes were small, and he plucked one from the top.

 

Pulling two pieces of paper out, he unfolded them with a frown. “Ah...”

 

“It's annual passes,” Ron said, helpfully. When Draco didn't connect the dots, he added, “To Thorpe Park. Now you can go as much as you want, when it's open.”

 

Hermione's jaw dropped in _horror_. “Ron!”

 

“It was Susan's idea!” he defended, pointing at his wife.

 

When Hermione glared at the girl, she just shrugged. “He likes it there,” she pointed out, reasonably. “He can give the other pass to someone else. It doesn't necessarily _have_ to be you.” Hermione's glare intensified, and Susan smiled like the evil little cherub she was. Because they all knew who was going to end up getting dragged along on those damn trips.

 

Draco opened the next one. “Alton Towers?” he read, uncertainly.

 

George grinned and shot him a wink. “Another theme park,” he said. “Way better rides, from what I've heard. Bigger. Faster.”

 

 _Well_ , George had _certainly_ gotten over his apparent dislike of Draco. Hermione stared at him, utterly betrayed. His grin only widened when he looked at her, shooting her a finger gun and another wink. She was going to hex him.

 

Hermione felt her dismay deepen into dread as the next box revealed two more papers – and a sweater.

 

“Paulton Park,” Arthur said, sounding the words out a little uncertainly. “We've never been, but we heard it's quite good.”

 

“ _Why are you all doing this to me_?” Hermione demanded.

 

Draco pulled out the sweater, blinking at the big D across the front. Molly beamed proudly. “Now that you're one of us, it only felt right.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, evenly, and honestly, Hermione could have kissed him then and there for not looking the slightest bit as disgusted by the awful garment as he mostly likely felt.

 

There were two more annual passes before Harry and Ginny's gift – an all-expenses paid, week-long trip to Cedar Point in _Ohio_. As in, the _United States_. “Rollercoaster capital of the world,” Harry explained. “From what I hear, you really will need multiple days to get through them all. Oh, I added a little something for Hermione at the bottom of your box, there.”

 

Draco pulled out a plastic bottle filled with pink and stared at in bewilderment. “What's Pepto Bismol?”

 

Hermione snatched it out of his hand as the Muggle-borns and half-bloods of the group burst into laughter. She was scowling ferociously at Harry as she snarled, “Oh, _very_ funny.”

 

“I don't get it,” Percy whispered to Luna.

 

“It's a Muggle medicine,” Susan managed, between wheezing gasps of fading laughter. “It helps with nausea.”

 

“Maybe you should keep it in your purse, then,” Draco suggested. “In case you accidentally stumble onto any fast-moving lifts.” He grinned smugly as the room burst into renewed laughter. Unamused and _rather unimpressed_ , Hermione pursed her lips and stuffed his passes roughly into one of the boxes.

 

Harry frowned at Draco's pile when he realized one of the presents was missing. “Hermione, where's yours?”

 

She felt her face heat. “I'll do it later.”

 

“No, no,” Ginny groaned, starting to laugh again. “It's so appropriate. I _demand_ you give it to him. It'll fit the theme.”

 

The rest of the room began clamoring at her in unison with Ginny, and Hermione swore under her breath a bit as she pulled a shrunken present from her pocket, charmed it back to size, and thrust it grumpily at her husband. Still smiling a little stupidly from all his gifts, he unwrapped it, and blinked at the disc inside the clear case. “A film?”

 

“It's a CD,” she muttered. “I put some songs on it for you.”

 

“Songs _she picked out_ just for _you_ ,” Ron crooned, and Susan made cute cooing noises.

 

“Shut up,” Hermione huffed, trying to snatch the present back.

 

He pulled the CD out of her reach. “What kinds of songs?”

 

“I suppose you'll figure it out when you listen to it, won't you!” she groused. “Who's turn is it, next?”

 

Molly took pity on her, moving onto Percy's pile. As he began opening, Draco leaned towards her. “You excited for all our fun trips?” he whispered. His smile widened as she shot him a murderous look. “What kinds of songs?”

 

“That's for me to know, and you to find out. If you can even figure out the CD player,” she said, primly.

 

He settled back against the couch, placing the CD carefully in the box of all of his passes. He looked so pleased with his little box of papers that she felt her anger began to ebb away. The way he looked at the box was almost... _warm_. Realizing that he hadn't expected to be on anyone's mind and thus wasn't expecting any gifts, she sighed and felt the last of her irritation disappear.

 

Scooting towards him, she grabbed his hand and threaded her fingers through his, leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder.

 

As everyone laughed at whatever George had gotten Percy, she whispered, “They're songs about flying. I actually have another gift for you, at home. The rest of the present. I wanted to save one of them for just us.”

 

His eyes dropped to her lips, and her eyes echoed the movement.

 

Conscious of their surroundings, though, they didn't kiss. After another moment of looking into each other's eyes, they returned their attention to the rest of the gift-opening. His hand squeezed hers a bit in unspoken promise.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Give it, give it, give it, give it,” he chanted, the second they were through the Floo. She shot him an amused look, her lips curving wryly. “Give it to me,” he demanded.

 

A little too drunk to be in the mood to tease or deny him, Hermione grabbed the little wrapped gift from the closet and passed it to him. He tore it open greedily, only to stare at its contents in bewilderment when he realized he didn't recognize the item inside even remotely.

 

“It's a Discman,” she explained. “It plays CDs. And you put these in your ears, and you can listen to music without anyone else hearing it. You can also carry it around places with you. Makes public transportation a _lot_ more bearable.” She used some scissors to wrestle it from the packaging, readying it briefly before placing her burned CD inside. Then, she put the earbuds in her ears and pressed play, making sure the volume was a little low; Draco wouldn't be used to having sound that close to his eardrums, she was sure.

 

Hitting back and then pause, she showed him the buttons before leaning forward and gently placing the earbuds into his ears. He blinked a bit at the unfamiliar feel of them.

 

She pressed play.

 

His eyebrows shot up, his mouth parting a bit in surprise as music flooded directly into his ears. For about twenty seconds, he was just stunned, staring at her as the song began – Lenny Kravitz' _Fly Away_. Smiling fondly at his expression, she watched him as he listened raptly to the song. What little exposure he'd had to Muggle music was mostly her rather sparse CD collection and what he'd heard at their wedding.

 

She was honestly kind of curious to see how he'd take to the songs. Most of them were older rock songs, and he certainly didn't have a high opinion of her favorite Queen songs.

 

After another minute of watching him – she wasn't sure if _Fly Like An Eagle_ from the Steve Miller Band had begun, yet – she leaned forward and pecked him on the lips before standing to make some tea. When she brought some out to him, he was still sitting on the floor cross-legged, his eyes closed as he listened, trying to discern the lyrics.

 

Hesitating, she decided not to interrupt, and drank both mugs herself.

 


	73. Happy Christmas

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Three: Happy Christmas**

 

…

 

Draco listened to his CD obsessively. He would listen to it while tinkering around his potions bench, while he was making oatmeal, and while she read a book before bed. She could see his lips moving faintly as he listened, and realized he was trying to memorize the lyrics. It was actually really adorable.

 

The day before Christmas Eve, he took the earbuds out. “Ready for your Christmas present?”

 

Blinking at him – she'd been curled up on the couch, engrossed in one of the books she'd gotten from the Weasley party – she was silent for a moment. “Huh?”

 

With a bit of a flourish, he pulled out the bag he'd brought the silk rope ties home in, and un-shrunk it.

 

She'd completely forgotten about that.

 

“Oh, no,” she murmured, filled with equal parts intrigue and dread. Mentally marking the page, she closed her book and leaned forward. She was far more curious than cautious, at this point. “Dare I even wonder?”

 

“How much do you trust me?”

 

“ _Dangerous_ question,” she huffed. “What's in there, swords? I'm _not_ letting you whip me, or something, if that's where this is headed--”

 

He laughed. “I chose to hear 'yes, of course, Draco, I trust you with my life,'” he said, speaking over her firmly. “Nothing that causes physical pain. I promise.” Her eyes narrowed a bit, but she didn't continue protesting. “Take off your clothes and close your eyes.” Her eyebrows shot up, and his echoed the movement tauntingly.

 

She started to shake her head, but sighed and stood up, pulling off her shirt. A few seconds later, she was wriggling out of her knickers, watching him avidly.

 

“Eyes,” he reminded her, and she heaved another sigh and closed them.

 

Frowning a bit when she felt him slip what felt like underwear on, she almost opened her eyes. She jolted when something that felt like a little plastic nub pressed between her vaginal lips, and inhaled sharply when it _shifted_ and formed itself snugly around her clit. “What the _hell_ is _that_?” she demanded, squeezing her eyes shut so they wouldn't fly open by accident.

 

“Something beautiful,” he murmured, and this time she did give in to her urge to open her eyes. He leaned back, smiling, and gestured at the underwear in invitation.

 

A quick exploration confirmed that it was some sort of underwear, but there was a hard plate-like formation over the front half – over her clit. This seemed to be attached to the form-fitting magic nub. Behind that, the fabric split, leaving room for her to pee or – actually, more accurately, for a penis to be inserted, probably. It also didn't cover her arsehole, and she _preferred_ to assume that this was also so she could use the bathroom rather than the other obvious reason.

 

When she tried to slip her fingers under any of the straps, she stared in shock as they skimmed right over them. It took her a few attempts to realize that she _could not remove the fabric contraption_. “What.”

 

“It, uh, it's... for fun.” He looked flushed as he watched her continue to try to remove it. “Only I can take it off, unless you say the safe-word. I already charmed it.”

 

“What does it do?”

 

He cleared his throat. “Teases. And keeps you from playing with yourself,” he added, in a low tone. When she just stared at him, he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I like the idea of denying you, too. It's... appealing.” He shifted a bit, as though adjusting himself. She couldn't see it, but she was pretty sure he was at least half-erect, already.

 

“But you can get off whenever you want,” she noted, in a dry tone.

 

The grin was a quick flash as he nodded, clearly delighted.

 

She spent a moment trying to figure out if she was annoyed by the idea of it. She supposed the feminist in her found the fact that it _existed_ sort of irritating, but then – if a woman _chose to put it on_ , that was feminist, too, so she didn't really have a good platform, there. Besides that, she actually found the idea appealing, herself. Not that she was going to _say as much_. “What if I use the safe-word and take it off?”

 

“I'll have to trust you,” he said, shrugging. “That you'll only do it if _absolutely_ necessary.” He flicked his wand a bit, and she jumped about a mile when the plastic nub on her clit began to vibrate.

 

“Oh, my God,” she muttered. “It vibrates.”

 

“The first time you use the safeword, it'll turn the vibration off, if it's on. Any other time you say it, it'll all come off,” he informed her, watching her shift restlessly from foot to foot as the vibrations began to arouse her. “Will you wear it over Christmas?”

 

“ _What_? I'll be at my parents'!”

 

He nodded, swallowing as his gaze roved over her hungrily. “Yes. And I'll be in France. But I want to know I'm driving you insane while I'm there.”

 

 _Fuck_ , why did that turn her on so much? She groaned, and he grabbed her, pulling her towards him. He fumbled to take himself out of his pants, and she sank against him. Every move pressed the vibrating nub into her a little, and she moaned a bit each time she lowered herself. It wasn't long before he came, and he gripped her shoulders tightly to keep her from moving any more. “Don't come unless I tell you to,” he ordered, breathlessly. “Promise.”

 

She moaned. “How long?”

 

“After Christmas,” he said, and she groaned again, trying to shift against him. He gripped her hips, holding her perfectly still.

 

“I didn't make _you_ wait days.”

 

“You're stronger than me, luv,” he responded, seeking out her lips with his. She kissed him begrudgingly, and he smoothed his hands over her arse and thighs. He didn't turn the vibrations off, but she could tell it wasn't going strong enough to push her over the edge.

 

The closest she came was when he shagged her from behind a couple of hours later, and she groaned in misery when he came before she could manage it. Out of pity, he turned it off while she slept.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

He left without much fanfare the next morning. She thought she'd find the weird knickers annoying while she did her business, but she was able to use the loo and shower without much trouble, and soon she forgot she was wearing it. Until the vibrations kicked on mid-way through her buttering her morning toast, that is, and she ended up dropping her breakfast on the kitchen floor.

 

“Oh, you fucking prat,” she hissed. The toast had landed butter-side down, _naturally_. Grumbling, she put some more bread in the toaster and cleaned up the mess, resolving to ignore the damn thing.

 

It was a lot harder than she thought it would have been. By the time she made it to her parents' house, she was ready to 1) strangle Draco to death with the Christmas tinsel and 2) portkey straight to France and make him shag her. Maybe not necessarily in that order.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She got reprieve about mid-afternoon, although it took a good twenty minutes before the ache of her unresolved arousal faded. At the very least, she was able to sit through dinner without fidgeting in her seat.

 

Of course, the second she _truly_ forgot about it – while reading in her bed around nine o'clock that evening – it started back up again.

 

And apparently the pity train ended, because he kept it on until midnight, adjusting the vibrations to random settings to keep her tossing and turning in her bed. At one point, she'd tried pressing her palm against the hard bit of plastic, but it had seemed to _sense_ her interference and the vibrations had immediately dulled to almost nothing. Frustrated beyond belief, she gave up trying to mess around with it and pulled her pillow over her face so she could scream into it.

 

When midnight finally rolled around, it stopped. She supposed he considered letting her sleep to be some sort of Christmas present.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She jolted awake when the vibrations began. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was not yet seven in the morning. “Oh, my God,” she moaned, softly. “Draco, why are you even _awake_?” Of course, there was no response.

 

At seven-thirty, she heard her mum get up, heading down to the kitchen to start tea and some breakfast. Her dad slept in a bit, not heading down to meet her until well after eight.

 

When she realized the vibrations were not going to stop or increase in intensity to give her any sort of relief, Hermione muttered a few choice curses and rolled out of bed, padding downstairs in her pajamas. She was amazed at her own ability to act normal with all this going on, really. “Morning, Mum. Dad,” she mumbled, checking to see if the kettle was still hot. It was, so she made herself some tea while Rose made her a plate of toast and bacon. “Happy Christmas.”

 

“Happy Christmas, darling,” Rose murmured, kissing her cheek as she set the plate down.

 

“Happy Christmas,” David agreed, swallowing a yawn. Hermione had no idea why he was so tired. He'd gone to bed at _ten_. “After presents, we'll take a quick walk to the park. Unless you want to ride bikes--”

 

“No,” Hermione said, quickly. A bike, with _that thing_ on her? She would go insane. At her father's strange look, she smiled. “A walk sounds nice.”

 

He frowned, bemused. “Alright.”

 

After a leisurely breakfast, Rose herded them into the living room to admire the tree (again) and point out the extra presents that “Santa” had brought. Hermione played along, as she usually did, and appointed herself the Christmas elf by passing out the presents. There were quite a few from members of her parents' office and some from the neighbors and her extended family. After getting through most of them, David cleared his throat a bit and pointed out another one, way in the back.

 

The name-tag said “Draco.”

 

She smiled, warmed by its addition. “He's in France, you know,” she reminded them, and Rose shrugged.

 

“You can open it for him. It's kind of for both of you,” David admitted. “By which I mean, if he hates it, it's for you.”

 

Hermione wasn't convinced Draco would appreciate having his present opened without him there, but they both looked eager for her to see it, so she tore the wrapping paper off. It was a chemistry textbook, the newest possible addition for Oxford. “Chemistry?” She smiled, laughing softly. “Because he's into potions?”

 

“Well, we thought he might be interested in learning the Muggle version,” Rose said, smiling uncertainly. “Do you think he'll like it?”

 

She considered the book. “Actually, yeah. I think he will.”

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The vibrations were driving her so crazy that while she was changing for her walk, she hissed, “ _Hufflepuff_ ,” at the damn faux-knickers. The sudden cessation of vibrations was both a relief and pure agony as she yanked on some jeans and a proper jumper. Then she met her father downstairs, thinking about how _thoroughly_ she was going to torture her husband when she got a chance.

 

“Rose, we're leaving,” David called into the house, towards the kitchen.

 

“The cookies will be out in an hour! If you want to decorate them, you'd better be back by then,” she yelled back. As they opened the door, _The Best of Queen_ began to play, and her father stifled an exasperated chuckle as he shut the door.

 

“That damn record.”

 

“I like that record,” Hermione defended, hopping down the front steps.

 

He grumbled. “Of course you do. It was played throughout your entire childhood. You've been held hostage by it all your life; you don't know of any other way to live,” he said, seriously, ignoring her as she rolled her eyes. “You have Stockholm's Syndrome and your mother's to blame. Now, me? I grew up normal. I had a happy life. One that she's steadily ruining.”

 

Hermione pursed her lips. “On her vegetarian thing, again, is she?”

 

“It is _abuse_ , what she is doing to me,” David exclaimed. “Last night was the first night in over two weeks that I have been served red meat in that house.”

 

“Wow, you poor thing.” The sarcasm was apparent. “How dare she try and extend your life by a few healthy years?”

 

“Thank you. Can you tell _her_ that, when we get back?”

 

“No!” Laughing, she tucked her hands into her jacket pockets when a wind picked up, hunching her shoulders up around her ears. “You are so dramatic. Are you sure you didn't miss your calling as a theater actor? I don't think there's a lot of opportunities for drama in dentistry.”

 

He grumbled some more. “As soon as you leave, she's going to try and feed me squash again. Our crisper is filled with squash. I won't eat it. I'm _revolting_.”

 

Shaking her head, she couldn't resist smiling. Listening to her dad whine about her mother's dietary fanaticism was so... well, _normal_. It felt like her own childhood, again. That was the appeal of Christmas, she supposed; it was like entering a strange bubble completely free of adult stress and responsibilities. The entire day was dedicated to the same activities you'd enjoyed twenty years ago on Christmas. In Hermione's experience, that meant opening presents, taking a long walk with her dad, coming back to decorate cookies with her mum while her dad took a nap, and playing backgammon or cribbage with him until dinner was done.

 

When she thought of the word _Christmas_ , that was what popped into her head. She wondered, for perhaps the first time, what her own children would think of when Christmas was brought up; what new traditions she and Draco would bring to the holiday for their family.

 

It was almost a little daunting to think about.

 

“How's marital bliss?” he asked, as they turned the corner of their block.

 

She smiled again. “Good,” she said, slowly. “Sharing my flat was really strange, at first, but... I guess now it'd be strange _not_ to have him in it. Of course, everyone on the planet is insisting I get pregnant, like, _six months ago_.”

 

“Oh, Lord, not yet,” he muttered. “I am not ready to be called 'Grandpa.' I'm still young. In my head, I'm only thirty.”

 

“ _Thirty_? How old am I, then, in your head?”

 

He did a quick calculation. “Three.”

 

“So if I did get pregnant, I'd be following in your footsteps rather closely,” she chuckled. Sobering a bit, she added, “You know, sometimes I wonder if I'm not being silly, trying to wait. There's stuff I want to do right now that I think would be hard with a kid, but my friends are pregnant, and... well, it'd be nice to be able to have them be around the same age, I guess. I don't know.”

 

“Don't make life-altering decisions based on what your friends are doing,” David scoffed. “You'll do it when you're ready, and there's nothing wrong with that. Someone, somewhere will have a kid the same age as yours. They'll be fine.”

 

“Draco really wants to start a family,” she murmured.

 

“Well, then _Draco_ can inseminate himself,” he returned, primly, and she burst out laughing.

 

When it died down, she gasped, “That was _such_ a polite way of saying it. I'm actually really impressed, Dad. Can I tell Mum?”

 

“ _No_ , you can _not_. She really likes him, for some reason.”

 

“We can put it on your next birthday cake. _Go Inseminate Yourself_. We could make t-shirts. Sell them. Make millions. Retire.”

 

“Let me make one thing clear,” he said, eyebrows raising in warning. “ _You_ will not be retiring on my brilliant quotables. I, and I alone, will be raking in the profits of that slogan, and you will get nothing, because you're not a minor anymore and I don't have to sit around and let you leech money out of me, anymore.”

 

Letting her jaw drop indignantly, Hermione exclaimed, “What! I'm your _only child_. What happened to sharing?”

 

“Sharing is for five-year olds and married couples. Grow up, Hermione.”

 

She frowned around at the dead trees and barren sidewalks. “I wish it was snowing so I could shove snow down the back of your collar. _Worst Dad Award_. I'm nominating you.”

 

He put a pretend phone up to his ear. “What's that? I've been disqualified from the award for providing for my daughter's schooling and health needs for eighteen consecutive years? What do you _mean_ that makes me ineligible for _Worst Dad_? This is an outrage, who's your supervisor?”

 

She reached for the imaginary phone, and he held his empty hand out of reach, poker-faced. “Excuse me, Hermione, I'm on the phone with some very important people.”

 

“Forget the snow. I'll make do,” she muttered, bending down to scoop up some leaves to stuff into his collar. When she straightened, he was already jogging ahead. She shouted and tore after him, the dead leaves crumbling in her hands.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Draco must have gotten the hint, because he didn't turn the vibrator back on until well after dinner. When it started up, she decided to take her book to bed and slipped up the stairs. Just one more night before she _killed him_. And he seemed to be angling for that, too, because he didn't turn it off at midnight, this time – as punishment for caving and using the safe-word, or just to drive her generally crazy, she didn't know which.

 

She spent all night half-dozing, exhausted enough to fall asleep until the vibrations suddenly shifted or changed pace. Then she'd jolt awake, groaning, and fantasize about what violent things she was going to do to him when he came home the next day.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She was sitting on her own couch when the Floo roared to life. She was on her feet in that same second, charging towards him as he stepped out. “I'm going to _kill you_ ,” she vowed, and his eyebrows nearly flew off his head as she shoved him back, making him stumble into the wall. It took a second for her threat to register before he was smirking.

 

“Oh, really?”

 

Hermione pressed herself against him, kissing him, hard. She could still feel him chuckling in his throat as he ran his hands down her back and over her arse.

 

Growling furiously, she yanked him forward by the shirt and steered him towards the couch. “Clothes off. I'm going insane. I mean it. Draco, I will _hex you_ ,” she snapped, when he paused to make sure he calmly unbuttoned every single button on his stupid thousand-button waistcoat.

 

He draped his jacket and waistcoat carefully over the armchair, unperturbed by her crackling frustration. “Patience is a virtue.”

 

Scrambling for her wand, she pulled it out and leveled it at him. “The day a _Slytherin_ lectures me on _virtues_ is the day I go to Azkaban for cold-blooded murder,” she grit out, evenly. “Get out of your sodding clothes before I set them on fire. If you think I won't shag you while you're covered in burns, you're wrong.”

 

“I think it's sexy, when you're like this.”

 

“ _Draco_.”

 

He peeled off his shirt and unbuttoned his pants, still faintly smirking. As soon as he'd taken those pants and his underwear off, she was on him. Her wand dropped to the floor as she shoved him down against the couch and straddled him, hungrily mouthing at his neck and chest. “Turn it up,” she whispered.

 

“I propose some rules,” he managed, a little breathless.

 

She raised her head to stare at him, openly incredulous. “You must have a death wish.”

 

He licked his lips, his eyes a little glazed. “We have two options, here. You shag me, or you blow me,” he began. He paused when she groaned, pained. When she was done and glaring at him, again, his smile faintly returned. “Shagging me has the obvious perk of helping you get off, and I'll turn it up to _here_...” The vibrations increased minutely. It wasn't much, but with him also inside of her, she thought she had a chance of coming before he did. “And leave it there until I come.”

 

“Bloody fucking hell,” she swore, her nails digging into his chest. “And option two?”

 

His teeth dug into his lower lip a bit, and he grinned. “It goes up the harder you suck. It stays on for as long as I'm in your mouth. Your hardest suck will get the highest speed. As soon as I come, it goes off.”

 

Hermione's gaze went a little vacant as she weighed her options. “How high is the highest speed-- oh,” she gasped, when he jerked his wand and sent the vibrator _crazy_. It dulled immediately, and she swallowed a moan. It seemed like she had her best chances sucking him off, after weighing it all out. “And if you come before I do?”

 

His grin widened. “Better luck next time.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

He sent her an air-kiss, smug, and she immediately shimmied down until she was between his legs. He was already starting to harden, and when she took him into her mouth, it didn't take long to get him fully erect. True to his word, the vibrations intensified the harder she sucked. So, really, it was just a matter of timing that out – because if she kept it up too long, he'd obviously come too soon. She went slow, at first, trying to draw it out to get herself closer to the edge.

 

He exhaled roughly, a faint groan in the noise, and settled back against the couch to watch her with lazy eyes. She could see his wand dangling by his fingertips, gently moving up and down to change the vibrations.

 

Draco groaned, his hand settling on her head, applying no pressure but threading through her curls happily.

 

When she thought she was close enough, she began to speed up, sucking harder, and was instantly rewarded. She moaned around him, chasing relief, and forgot about her plan to alternate between soft and hard, driven dizzy by the intensity of the new vibration setting. She didn't stop, and before she knew it, his fingers were fisting around a handful of her hair as he gasped and groaned, hips jerking as he came. _Shit_. She tried to keep it up, and rode him through it as she swallowed. She could almost taste her _own_ orgasm, and then the vibrator went dead.

 

She moaned her protest as he gently pushed her off of him, still gasping for breath. “Rules are rules,” he managed.

 

“Draco, I might die,” she whined. The dull ache returned, and she pressed her thighs together to try and ease it a bit. The orgasm at the end of all this better be bloody well worth it.

 

“Well, if you time it right, it'll take me much longer to come next time.”

 

She glared at him. “This Christmas present for me was really a Christmas present _for you_.” He grinned, fighting down a laugh, and shrugged innocently. She poked at his softening dick, and he twitched a bit. Sighing when she realized she'd have at _least_ another half hour before she was able to get him to do anything, again, she sat up and pointed at the textbook on the table. “My parents got that for you.”

 

He sat up with a sigh, not really wanting to move much in the wake of his own orgasm. She was so jealous she wanted to spit. “Chemistry.”

 

“It's like Muggle potions,” she said. That was almost tortuously inaccurate to say, but no other way of explaining it would make a lick of sense to him. “They thought you'd be interested in reading about how Muggles do them without magic.”

 

“You can't make potions without magic.”

 

She rolled her eyes, still a bit bitter. “If you don't want to read it, then give it to me.”

 

“ _No_ ,” he said, promptly, pulling it away from her grasping hands. “It's _my_ present.” Standing, he walked it over to the potions bench and set it there, since that was his unofficial Hermione-No-Touch zone. She admired his arse as he did so, and sighed at herself, annoyed at her own randiness. She stood, padding into the kitchen to make some tea, and heard the rustle of clothes as he got dressed again.

 

She almost told him not to bother. She'd be tearing those off again soon enough.

 

“Make me one.”

 

“No,” she shot back, petulant.

 

She could hear the cloud of smugness in his tone. “Someone's a sore loser. You gambled and lost, Hermione. No need to take it out on the innocently thirsty.”

 

“If you say _another word_ , I will _destroy you_.”

 

He was still laughing softly when she huffily brought him his stupid tea five minutes later.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0

 

She gambled and lost again about an hour later when she rode him, trying to control the pace. It was no use; men came so easily, and Draco was hardly an exception when he wasn't trying to hold back, and she could _tell_ that he _really wasn't_ trying to hold back. She was ready to slap the smirk off his face once and for all when he finally locked his hands around her hips to keep her from moving any more after he was done.

 

Relief came a few hours later, when he decided that three was enough, and turned the vibrator up high as he entered her. It took her a few minutes to realize he wasn't moving.

 

“What are you doing?” she gasped, her eyes nearly rolling back in her head. She was close.

 

“Watching,” he murmured, wrapping her legs around him a bit. She locked her ankles behind his waist automatically, and he inhaled sharply the first time she came, her walls squeezing him rhythmically. The vibrator didn't stop, and he'd set the wand entirely aside, on the nightstand – out of reach.

 

She whimpered. “How long?”

 

“Until I come,” he said, immediately, his gaze intent. He held his breath as another orgasm rocked her. “You may want to move, if you're not interested in doing this thirty times.”

 

“Oh, my God, you are an insufferable _prat_ ,” she moaned, pushing at him. He rolled – away from his wand, she couldn't help but notice – until he was on his back. Riding him was hard with the vibrator going crazy against her, and her movements were jerky and unfocused. He didn't help at _all_ , the spoiled little brat, just smoothed his hands up and down her thighs as she moved.

 

She was practically sobbing from over-stimulation before she felt him tense up beneath her. She forced herself to move a little bit faster, as agonizing as it was, gasping as another one hit her. His fingers dug into her thighs as he groaned, spilling himself into her.

 

“Draco,” she hissed, when he just laid there.

 

“Give me a minute.”

 

“ _Draco, I will strangle you!_ ”

 

He groaned again, shimmying over a bit to grasp for his wand. He turned it off, and she slumped against him, breathing raggedly. “Hufflepuff,” he murmured, and she felt the torture-knickers (as she'd come to dub them) slip off of her. She raised herself enough to let him pull it completely out from under her and throw it on the floor, somewhere. She was too tired to care.

 

Gently but firmly, he pulled her chin up, seeking her mouth with his. She kissed him tiredly as he carefully rolled her off of him and onto her side, his hands running over her sweat-soaked skin soothingly.

 

“Still going to kill me?” he murmured.

 

“Yes,” she muttered, still grumpy beneath the exhaustion. “Tomorrow. All the way dead.”

 

He cast the cooling charm before snuggling up against her, falling asleep with the same dumb smile on his face that he'd worn all day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi everyone! I don't usually do author's notes on chapters, but I'm making an exception just to let everyone know about something that's going on in regards to my next story. As those of you who follow my tumblr know, the Alkahest is wrapping up and will be over somewhat soon. I have a lot of ideas for my next story, and I need help narrowing it down, so I've put a post up on my tumblr asking that my readers vote for the next story. You can find the post at shadu-kiam.tumblr.com/post/149609275276/next-full-length-fanfic-votes. To avoid votespamming/cheating, I won't take votes by anon ask, but if you don't have a tumblr account and have no desire to make one, you can vote by commenting on this chapter WHILE LOGGED IN. If you do have a tumblr account, you don't need to be following me to vote! You can vote by sending in an ask (I will not publish it, but will delete it), by reblogging/responding to the vote post, or by direct-messaging me on tumblr. You can vote for as many of the options as you want. Thanks to everyone reading along, and I hope my next couple of stories are as fun for you guys to read as this one!


	74. 2006: An Egyptian Odyssey

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Four: 2006: An Egyptian Odyssey**

…

"Make my... home... learn to fly..."

It was so soft, she could barely hear it through the bathroom door. She'd heard him singing quietly when she shut the shower off, and now she was pressed against the door jam, listening intently. There was a pause as he rewound the CD a bit, and then he tried again:

"Make my way back home and learn to fly high..." Foo Fighters.

As precious as it was listening to him trying to master the lyrics of the song, she eventually got tired of standing in the steamy bathroom and opened the door. As she padded out with her towel wrapped around her, she glanced in the living room. He'd gone silent, earbuds in his ears as he read the Chemistry textbook.

Swallowing a smile, Hermione turned to head to her room and get dressed. It was too precious. Now it was just a matter of deciding whether or not it would be worth the cold shoulder she'd get if she told Ginny.

Or Harry.

"Draco, do you have to shower?" she yelled out the door as she pulled on one of her nicer jumpers.

"No," he called back.

Shrugging, she took the opportunity to braid her hair while it was wet. Then she wriggled into her jeans. Since Draco had never enjoyed a Muggle New Year's, she'd taken it upon herself to plan the night out. Fair food for dinner, and then fireworks on the Thames. Then all of them – Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Susan included – were going to head out the next morning to enjoy the New Year's parade. Ginny had let her know that Teddy was going to be in attendance, which she knew would make Draco happy. He'd really bonded with the little boy during all his visits to his aunt's with Ginny.

As she stepped into the hallway, she said, "Keep whatever you transfigure your clothes into casual. They might get dirty if we sit on some grass."

He squinted at her. " _Why_ would- Nevermind, I can already see from your face that this line of questioning is going to fly right over your head," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I will wear that _t-shirt_ thing you like to see me in."

Hermione snickered. It _was_ amusing to see him in a t-shirt and jeans.

Draco rolled his eyes at her snickering, pointedly focusing on his textbook again. She leaned down to press a kiss to his temple (which he grumbled at) before skipping into the kitchen to get some tea going.

"How do you like the book?"

He grunted. "It's strange."

Actually, in retrospect, she probably should have gotten him something easier to understand. Going from not knowing what molecules _were_ to a book that starts talking about how to affect them via advanced chemistry was probably a bit much. "There's some other books that might help you understand what you're reading. I just realized that it's university-level stuff," she said, apologetically. "Usually you have to learn the basics when you're younger before you get to that bit."

She could feel him bristling all the way from the other room. "I can understand it just fine."

"Draco-"

" _Just fine_."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione let it drop, fishing out a packet of his favorite tea.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Once they'd bought their dinner – a motley assortment of food that was _very much_ unhealthy and sold in moving carts – she led him to a grassy area and spread a blanket. "We've got a few hours until the fireworks."

"Why did we come so early?" he wondered.

She shrugged. "So we'd get a good spot. Look, like them." Pointing at everyone else who was already setting up camp, she flopped onto the blanket and pulled her hot pretzel out of the wrapper.

Draco looked a little annoyed at the prospect of sitting on the _ground_ for several hours, but finally sat with a nasal sigh, unwrapping a hot dog. "I don't see what's so special about this," he finally griped, after eating silently for a couple of minutes. "I've _seen_ firework displays, you know."

"Magical ones!" she huffed. "Aren't you the slightest bit curious as to how _Muggles_ managed to make them without magic?"

"No," he muttered.

Hermione pursed her lips, feeling a flicker of irritation. "Look, if you want to go home-"

"No, no," he refused, promptly, with another put-upon sigh.

Her eyes narrowed. "You know what? Just forget it, then. Let's go home and you can make a potion or something," she said, pushing up to her feet. "I really don't care."

Draco sighed again, but grabbed her wrist to stop her from packing everything up into her tote bag. When she glared at him, he murmured, "I'm sorry. I want to stay." She continued to stare at him, not believing him for a second, and he tugged on her arm to get her back down. "Really. I mean, either way, all I want to do is spend my evenings with you. If you want to do that in new and interesting locations, well, why not?"

Blinking a bit at the sudden bout of sincerity, Hermione grumbled a bit and sat down. He always knew just what to say to unbalance her. "You know, this is a big couples night," she said, quietly. He shot her a frown. "I mean, a lot of couples go out, for it."

Draco's lips parted, and after he digested that, his whole demeanor shifted. "Oh. Well, why didn't you say so?"

She scowled. "I didn't think I'd _failed to make it clear_ that this was a _date_."

He looked insufferably pleased at the revelation, and scooted closer to her on the blanket. Still annoyed, she tried to shove him away, but he wrapped his arms around her to pin her against him. "Well, you didn't ask me out _properly_. No wonder I was confused."

"Let _go_ of me, you unmitigated _git_ -"

Nuzzling against her ear, he chuckled. "Ask me out on a date."

She thrashed a bit. "No!"

"Ask me," he said, slowly, his tone heavy with promise. "Or I will make the biggest, ungodliest scene you can _possibly_ imagine."

Going still, Hermione twisted around a bit to glare at him. "You wouldn't-"

He inhaled, sharply, as though to start yelling, and she panicked and dove forward. Pressing her lips to his, she pushed him onto his back, kissing him into silence. After a brief moment of surprise, he chortled into the kiss, his arms wrapping more gently around her back.

When their lips parted, she breathed, "Draco Malfoy, would you like to go out on a date with me?"

" _Merlin_ , no. You insufferable swot." He groaned when she pinched his side, unable to quell his grin. "Well, if you're going to _twist my arm_ , I suppose I can free up my evening."

Glowering, Hermione sat up. "I don't know _how_ it's come to pass that I've _consented_ to put up with you."

"Well," he groaned a bit as he sat up, rubbing the sore spot where she'd pinched him. _That_ was going to bruise. "I mean, I do recall something about you being madly in love with me. Which is perfectly understandable, by the way. I am a model wizard and everyone's dream man." When she snorted, he smiled winningly at her until she couldn't hide her smile anymore. "Ahh, there it is."

"So annoying," she murmured, trying to turn her dumb grin into a scowl.

He scooted close to her again, curling an arm around her back. "I love you, too, you know. And if sitting on a blanket on the _hardest patch of ground to ever exist_ will make you happy, I suppose things could be worse."

Hermione leaned against him. "It's not even that hard. You are such a baby."

His hands smoothed over her braid. "Are you going to miss me on the days I have to spend in Cairo?" he asked, suddenly.

Eyebrows raising, she turned her head to look up at him. "Well, sure. But you said it wouldn't be often, just a few times a month, right?"

Draco nodded. "I start in just a little over a week. I think I'll probably have to stay down there more often when I'm new. I don't want to have to worry about portkeying here and there while I'm figuring out my coursework," he rambled, looking far more upset by the reality of being away from her than she felt. "Maybe you should come with me."

"I'll have to work," she reminded him, gently, and felt him heave a sigh. "It won't be for long."

"A week, at most. Until I figure things out," he added, although Hermione wasn't sure if he even knew which one of them he was trying to reassure. "Remind me to go to the Ministry and sort out my portkey, too."

She shot him a wry look. "Why you save everything for the last minute, I'll never understand."

Exhaling loudly, he laid down on his back. "It'll be fine." When she continued to sit, he wrapped his hand around her braid and _pulled_ until she dropped down beside him.

"Ow," she growled, but cozied up to him, anyway.

The sun had set, darkening the sky, and she could make out the faintest impressions of stars in the night sky. She traced a few of them, trying to find familiar constellations, but they were too hard to see.

Suddenly, Draco pointed. "Sirius."

"Are you sure?"

He snorted, insulted. "Please."

Chuckling, she snuggled closer to him. It was getting chilly awfully quick. "Alright, Starchild, I'll take your word for it." Her eyes followed his finger faithfully as he pointed each star out as it appeared.

0o0o0o0o0o0

He made it through half of the fireworks display before finally giving in to his curiosity and asking her how fireworks _worked_. Of course, it required a pretty long explanation on gunpowder, and it wasn't until the display was over that she realized she'd lectured through the entire damn thing. By the end of it, he looked a lot more interested than he had when they'd arrived, so she felt like she could consider that a victory of some sort.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"That." Ginny pointed at Draco, who had let himself be convinced that Teddy ought to ride on his shoulders to see the parade. "Is my favorite thing about today."

"You're awfully easy to please," Hermione huffed. She wasn't going to admit it, but it was sort of her favorite thing, too. The men had formed a line, James on Ron's shoulders and Albus carefully balanced on Harry's, and were facing the street expectantly. Teddy's hair had gone pale blond in celebration of his favorite cousin, and she watched as Draco tilted his head back slightly and murmured something to the boy that made him start giggling.

Susan gently bumped her shoulder. "Kind of gets the ovaries pumping, doesn't it?" she asked, innocently.

"That's quite enough, _Satan_ ," Hermione sniffed.

"What?" Ginny demanded, in the same innocent tone. "Susan was just pointing out how _virile_ and _fatherly_ he looks." She watched Hermione's jaw set in exasperation, and bit back a grin. "What a family man. He'd raise a family _so well-_ "

Hermione glared at her. "I get it."

"It's _so cute_ that I think I have _twins_ ," Susan declared, gasping and gripping her belly. "Oh, no! I developed a whole _extra fetus_ because of how fatherly he is."

"Oh, my _God_ ," Hermione intoned, standing and stepping forward. "I'm going to go stand with _them_."

They laughed, grabbing at her and dragging her back. "Alright, alright," Susan said, soothingly. "No more hints, I promise."

Hermione twisted around to stare at her. "God help you if you thought that was _hinting_ , Susan."

"Well, it's hinting by Ginny's standards," she defended.

"Hey!" the redhead protested.

Ignoring her, Susan released Hermione's arm and settled back in her seat. They'd taken over a bench, not particularly caring about having a good view of the parade. At least, not more than they cared about their swollen feet. After a minute, Susan looked at her. "So how's the Wolfsbane Conundrum, Hermione? Any leads?"

"Actually." She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to get ahead of herself. "I think so. I got an owl from Egypt saying they imported a tea that they distributed to werewolves, and they hadn't had any sort of werewolf-related incident since they started using it over fifty years ago. A tea mixture can't be _that_ expensive, surely."

Ginny inclined her head. "Bound to be cheaper than a potion. Is anyone else getting this feeling that Egypt is going to be the Next Big Thing in terms of the future? They're always all over the news. Invented this, invented that..."

"Soon, Draco will be in the center of it," Susan pointed out. "He can get us the inside scoop."

Ginny gasped. "That's _right_ , he leaves soon, doesn't he?"

Smiling, Hermione dug around in her purse for her water bottle. "Next week," she confirmed. "He'll probably spend a week or two there, getting the lay of the land. After that, he should only have to stay overnight a couple times a month."

In the distance, the fanfare of the parade swelled. Teddy and James began yelling in delight, although Albus mostly looked confused as to what was earning such a ruckus. Hermione leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she watched them.

"So, what'd you guys settle on, anyway?" Ginny murmured to Susan behind Hermione.

Susan made a _tsk_ noise. "He _really_ likes Hugo," she said. "I don't know about that one. It's a _weird_ name."

"Oh, like Grandpa Hugo! I don't think it's weird."

"It's weird. Trust me. Hermione?" She poked the bushy-haired witch's side. "Back me up. Is Hugo a weird name?"

Hermione pursed her lips, thinking. "Actually, I like it. It reminds me of Hunchback of Notre Dame."

Susan stared at her. "I don't want my _child_ associated with a _hunchback_."

"What about _Hugh_ , then?"

She made a gagging noise, rolling her eyes. "I should have known better than to ask you for help. _Hermione_. Should have seen _that_ one coming. Hermione and _Ginevra_. _Why_ did I assume you two would be interested in normal names?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "What do you want to name him, then?"

"Bradley." The chorus of groans made her jaw drop incredulously. "What? How is that _worse_ than Hugo or _Hugh_?"

"It's the name of that annoying Ravenclaw prat," Ginny reminded her. "Grant Bradley? Don't you remember how he used to _correct_ everyone about everything? _Actually, that's a horn-snouted pogswallop, not a horn-eared pogswallop, easy mistake to make, really, I wouldn't worry about it._ " She ended her mimicry by making a face and flapping her hands on either side of her head. " _Myeh_."

They were both laughing at Ginny's imitation, but Susan recovered first. "He was _not_ that bad. He was actually sort of nice. Just... not very good at expressing himself."

"Oh, if you defend him again, I'm going to be _sick_ all over this sidewalk," Ginny sneered.

"Fine," Susan huffed. "What about Kevin, then?" She threw her hands up in frustration when they both wordlessly extended their hands, thumbs down. "Oh, for God's sake. I guess we'll just call the poor boy _Hugo_ and set him up for seven years of torment, then."

Hermione was still chuckling. "It's a wizard school, Susan. There's going to be weirder names than his, there."

Susan grumbled. "Well, _I'm_ naming the next one."

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Let's _both_ go down, for the weekend, and you can come back in time for Monday," Draco suggested, _as he was packing_.

Blinking at him, Hermione frowned. "What? I don't even have a portkey set up. I haven't- Who will feed Crookshanks?" Honestly, she couldn't imagine what it was like to live life by the _seat of her pants,_ like Draco apparently preferred.

"Weasley will feed him. And I'll just pay the lads at the Ministry and get you one."

She made an exasperated noise. "Draco-"

"Don't you want to get to the bottom of that tea?" he asked, keenly, and she stopped protesting. The corners of his lips quivered upwards a bit as he realized he might actually _win_ this one. He pounced on her hesitation. "The import-export company hasn't gotten back to your owl, yet, right? Well, they're _based_ in Egypt."

Her eyes narrowed at him. "You don't care a whit if I get a response back from that company."

"I didn't say I cared, I was just presenting an option on the _off-chance_ that you were interested in pursuing it. I could have your portkey set by noon tomorrow," he added, eyebrows raising innocently as he waited for her response.

Hermione shook her head. "You are so irritating," she complained, and he grinned in victory as she stood and grabbed a her overnight bag.

"Why? Because I have great ideas?"

"Because you have them at the _last minute_ , which you _know_ I hate," she clarified in a low mutter.

He crowded up behind her as she opened the bag, looping his arms around her waist and nipping at her ear. "You can't plan everything. In fact, I would have thought that this marriage would have been a fine example of that. Haven't you learned your lesson, yet?"

"I'm pretty sure the lesson is _how to develop inhuman levels of patience_ ," she snapped as he nibbled on her neck. "Draco, do you want me to pack, or not?"

"Mm. Yes." His hands were sneaking up her shirt, though.

"Well, how do you expect me to do it while you're feeling me up?"

His lips skimmed the nape of her neck as he went to the other side, putting identical marks on that side of her neck, too. His hands shoved her bra up, fondling her happily beneath her shirt. "With your superior and advanced mind, of course."

"I'm going to _kick_ you," she threatened, but her voice was strangled with laughter.

She shrieked as he turned her around and pushed her onto the bed, laughing as he chased her, pinning her there and shoving her shirt up as he devoured her throat. As soon as her breasts were bare, he transferred his mouth there, swirling his tongue around her nipple. She was still giggling when he wrestled her pants off and tucked her knees around his waist.

She didn't _stop_ giggling until he kissed her, both of them fighting smiles the entire way.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"So, I feed him at seven, and then again at six in the evening," Hermione was explaining. Ron was draped over her kitchen table dramatically as she explained Crookshanks' feeding schedule, something she did _without fail_ every _single_ time Ron had to watch the blasted cat. "I leave a _little_ dry food for the overnight, no more than a quarter cup."

"Hermione." His voice was muffled, spoken directly into the wood of her table. " _How_ many times have I watched Crookshanks?"

She huffed. "I just want to make _sure_. Now, you have to clean his litter _every day_ , at _least_ once a day-"

Ron began groaning as she spoke, and got louder and louder when she continued trying to explain Crookshanks' complicated fur-brushing schedule over his wordless protests. When Draco returned, Ron was yelling _AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH_ into the wood as Hermione shouted over him, stubbornly trying to explain how often Crookshanks was allowed treats.

The blond took one look at the scene in the kitchen, opened his mouth, and then re-thought himself closed it. That was a whole _room_ full of nope.

Silently wishing Ron good luck, he headed into the bedroom to double-check that he'd packed everything.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The first thing she noticed about Cairo was that it was _hot_. She supposed it was silly to expect otherwise, but it was _January_. Surely even Egypt grew cooler in January.

Unless this _was_ "cooler." God help everyone that lived in this place.

As she pulled out her sunscreen, Draco stopped walking and glared at her. "Where did you get that?" he demanded, pointing at it. "Where's the stuff I bought?"

"We used it up in Italy!"

"If you put that foul-smelling _concoction_ on yourself, I am _divorcing_ you," he threatened.

Holding his gaze, Hermione maintained a perfect poker-face as she uncapped the bottle. He pointed at her, silently underlining his prior threat as she slowly turned the bottle over. "Don't- Ugh," he groaned, as she squirted it into her palm with a challenging stare.

Smugly, she spread it over her skin. "You need to wear some, too."

"I would rather throw myself into traffic."

"Draco, you have two options, which are as follows," she said, evenly. "One. You put the lotion on yourself, pout and whine about the smell all day, and I will go with you later this evening to find sunblock that you won't object to. Or _two_." Her lips thinned with promise. "You refuse to put it on, and I _restrain_ you by _force_ in an _embarrassing_ display and _put it on you_. And then I continue to do that every single day with this very same sunblock."

Draco's glare was mutinous. When she returned it, eyes narrowing, he scowled and snatched the tube out of her hands. He ignored her smirk as he spread it on himself, his scowl intensifying. "I'm not waiting until this evening," he muttered. "We're going to find something _right after_ we check into the hotel."

"Very well," she agreed, newly-amicable after seeing him smear the protective layer onto his skin.

Still pouting, he tossed the tube back at her and stalked down the street. She followed, hoping that her victorious aura was searing itself into his back.


	75. Bhangija

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Five: Bhangija**

…

The hotel room was stunning, although she wasn't sure why she expected _otherwise_ when Draco Malfoy was in charge of reservations. As Hermione entered, she looked at the massive suite and sighed.

"I just realized that our hotel in Italy wasn't the honeymoon suite," she muttered, when he glanced over at her. "You just stay like this wherever you go, don't you?"

Draco un-shrunk his suitcase and shot her an incredulous look. "How do _you_ stay?"

Hermione shook her head. "Good God," she whispered, taking her own luggage out of her pocket and heading for what she presumed was the bedroom. She passed the full-sized kitchen and bit back a snort. What in heaven's name were rich, snobby wizards going to do with a kitchen? Unless they just took their elves along with them. "Since tomorrow's Friday, I'm going to try my luck at the import-export. I doubt they're open on weekends."

Following her into the bedroom, Draco nodded. "I'll go with you."

"You don't have to," she said, un-shrinking her bag and setting it on the bed. "You'll probably be bored out of your mind. Are you sure you don't want to explore the campus?"

"I have the weekend for that. Besides, you're going to need me there."

Hermione raised her head and frowned. "Why?"

Deadpan, he raised his hand and rubbed his fingers against his thumb in the universal sign for _money_. When she scoffed, he raised his eyebrows, unimpressed by her naivete. "Listen, Hermione, everything in this world happens by the grace of the Galleon," he said, confidently. "Do you really think you're going to just march in there and they'll tell you all they know about where they get this tea you desperately want?"

"Why wouldn't they?" she demanded, spreading her hands.

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Well, for one, if you're trying to supply England with it, they run the risk of the tea suddenly becoming rarer. And do you know what happens to rare things?" He didn't wait for her to respond. "They become more _expensive_."

Folding her arms, Hermione glared at him. She hated when he made good points. "Well, how would you giving them a one-time bribe help them, then? They stand to lose a lot more than that."

"The _company_ does. The individual I'd be bribing still comes out ahead," he assured her.

Hermione groaned. She _hated_ this sort of thing. But, as Lucius was so eager to point out, it behooved her to learn about it... even if it made her want to angrily vomit all over the entire world for being such a crap-fest. "Whatever," she grunted, taking her clothes out and re-folding them to put them into the provided dressers. "Fine."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Amazingly, wizarding Cairo was expansive and _posh_. The restaurants were all lovely, and she hadn't seen a single dive-y pub _once_ as they walked down the street trying to determine where they wanted to eat. Everyone was dressed with a beautiful sense of exoticism, the men and women alike practically coated in glittering jewels.

It was sort of how she imagined people looked in pre-Muslim Saudi Arabia, if everyone was rich beyond all measure.

There were a few Europeans there, and most of them were dressed in the style of their home country, so she didn't feel like she stuck out _too_ much. At the very least, no one gave her and Draco a second look.

"Ooh," she said, pointing at a restaurant with Arabic on the sign. "Want to try there?"

Draco's nose wrinkled a bit. There were several French- and Italian-style restaurants on this street, but Hermione _insisted_ on trying the local cuisine, for reasons he would perpetually fail to understand. Realizing that he had absolutely no hope of winning this particular argument, he shrugged, his fingers flicking in a way that seemed to say, _Fine, then._

Beaming, Hermione took his hand and led him to it, looking excited.

"I don't suppose you can _read_ Arabic," he drawled, knowing full well she couldn't. When she shook her head, he added, "This ought to be an interesting evening."

"We'll just ask the waiter what's good."

Draco grimaced a bit. "Excellent. Because that's not _completely_ lacking in sophistication, or anything," he muttered. He fell silent when she shushed him and herded him into the restaurant, not speaking a word as they were seated. Despite the sign, the tables were all at the appropriate height and covered in white linen.

Maybe this wouldn't be entirely terrible.

Any such hopes were dashed when the menu was presented. Entirely in Arabic. _Fantastic_. Upon realizing that it was useless trying to _pretend_ to peruse the damn thing, he set it on the edge of the table and nodded his thanks to whichever staff member appeared to offer them sparkling water.

Hermione, meanwhile, was frowning at the menu, her eyes scanning it as though she had _some_ hope of translating the damn thing.

"Put your menu down," he ordered, a little testy. "You can't read it."

Her face scrunched a bit, but she conceded his point and set it down. "The waiter will know what's good," she assured him. "Also, stop being cranky. You eat French food all the time. You're in a new place and you should _explore_."

She grinned as he sighed, refusing to let his grumpiness get in the way of her enjoying this.

The waiter greeted them in Arabic, and when they just stared at him, he chuckled and switched to accented English. "From England, yes? Hello, and welcome. Do you like only the water? We have a special drink, very famous, spiced yogurt drink."

Hermione's grin widened. "That sounds good."

"Fine," Draco murmured.

He started listing specials, taking care to describe them. Hermione leaned towards him as she listened, the very picture of intense concentration.

Draco heard the word _bechamel_ and his eyebrow lifted. "I'll take that," he interrupted, and the server nodded graciously and continued his explanation of the rest of them.

"What's your favorite thing to eat, here?" Hermione asked. The man said _something_ she didn't quite catch, but she just nodded as he briefly described it. Fava beans and vegetables and something. "That sounds fantastic, I'll have that."

"Yes, wonderful," he commended her, writing it down. "I will bring you the _eish_ and your _zabadtabil_ drink." With a flourish of his silver quill, he was gone.

Hermione continued to beam at Draco until he growled, "What?"

"This is fun," she murmured.

He rolled his eyes, but felt a lot of his annoyance melt away the longer he looked at her smile. Relaxing a bit, he leaned forward. "You are a constant source of irritation, to me," he informed her, not quite able to stifle a smile as she started to laugh. "If this food isn't good, you owe me something _amazing_ when we get back to the hotel room."

"It will be," she assured him. "Don't be so cynical. You'll love it."

0o0o0o0o0o0

He hated it.

For something with bechamel in it, this was positively atrocious. He choked down a few bites, but mostly subsisted on the flat bread and his damn spicy yogurt smoothie.

Hermione winced a bit in sympathy. "Did you want some of mine?" she offered, for the fortieth time.

"No," he huffed. Despite the fact that her plate looked like _Weasley's vomit_ rather than actually edible food, she seemed to be enjoying it immensely. He was going to have one of the hotel elves fetch him something that _didn't_ stink of body odor when they made it back to the room. "It looks even worse than mine."

She giggled. "It's _not_. It's delicious. Try some."

"No."

Despite his protests, she began spooning some of her food onto his plate. He found himself thankful that the restaurant was mostly empty – it was still too early to eat by the standards of most people, but Hermione had always maintained that dinner needed to occur before seven o'clock. He wondered if most British Muggles had such a strange attachment to eating so ungodly early.

He tried a bite to appease her, and held back a cringe just _barely_. "No," he repeated, setting his fork down.

At that moment, the server returned. "Everything is okay, sir?" he asked, gesturing at Draco's plate.

"Yes, it's wonderful, thank you," he lied. No matter how discontent he was with the food, his upbringing wouldn't allow him to be so crude as to say so. Only classless boors actually complained about food to _restaurant staff_.

Hermione finished quickly, feeling a little guilty, and soon he'd paid and they were back on the street.

"That was the worst use of my money, ever," Draco muttered. She started laughing again, weaving her arm around his and leaning against him. "I am choosing all restaurants from this point forward."

"It was _good_ , Draco, you're just weird."

He scoffed. "Excuse me? _I'm_ weird. Have you _noticed_ that that is the _only_ restaurant of its type on this whole street? Clearly even the _locals_ have better taste, and that establishment simply preys on naïve tourists such as yourself."

She couldn't stop chortling. "You are _grumpy_. You need some food in you. Let's get back to the hotel so you can quit whinging."

Scowling, Draco lifted his arm to try and shake her off it. She stubbornly clung to it, still choking back laughter. When he gave up on trying to dislodge her, she scampered around to the front of him and got up on her toes. Her arms weaved around his neck as she pressed her lips to his, still smiling into the kiss. He didn't remove his hands from his jacket pockets, but relaxed into it a bit, feeling slightly mollified.

"Well, as a bright spot on your evening, I do owe you something amazing, now. Don't I?" she murmured against his lips.

He made a growling noise in his throat, forgetting his hunger for a moment. "That you do."

Her smile widened as she pecked him, then she was grabbing his arm and hauling him back towards the hotel. This time, he didn't drag his feet.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Hermione panned her eyes around the reception area to avoid Draco's smug stare. He'd needed to slip the idiot at the front some money to even get this appointment, which was _patently_ ridiculous. However, since she had no intention of acknowledging that she'd been wrong, she was stuck staring at the ceiling and the paintings on the wall as though they were truly fascinating. Which they weren't.

"You'll have to make eye contact sometime," he pointed out, and even his _voice_ was insufferably smug.

She flicked him a glare, scowling a bit when she saw his smirk.

"Mr. Malfoy?" A woman, beautiful and young, had appeared. When they both straightened, she gestured down the hallway. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Rahal can see you, now."

Mr. Rahal was the man to speak to, or so Draco had figured. He was high enough up to know where the tea was being made and by whom, but low enough that his investment in the well-being of the company could be set aside for the right amount of money. Although it rankled, Hermione had agreed that Draco should probably do most of the talking; misogyny was still somewhat prevalent in wizarding Cairo.

Rahal rose as they entered his office, smiling and pressing his hands together and offering a slight bow, which Draco returned with an inclination of his chin. His eyes panned to Hermione, and he asked, "Your assistant?"

"Wife," Draco corrected, and the man nodded and then seemed to promptly forget Hermione even _existed_.

She ground her teeth a bit, determined to stay quiet, as they'd planned.

"I understand you're interested in the _bhangija_ we bring in," Rahal said, sitting down and gesturing at Draco to take the chair opposite the desk. Hermione sat to the side, trying not to openly seethe as the man continued to utterly ignore her. "It's a very interesting mixture. Since we brought it in, werewolf attacks have diminished by an astonishing amount. In fact, there has been but _one_ attack in the last ten years, and when the werewolf was killed, his autopsy proved that he did not drink his rations."

 _Killed_? Hermione felt a shiver go down her spine. She wanted to ask if the werewolf's attack had culminated in the death of someone else, but remembered to remain quiet just in time. She hoped they didn't just slaughter werewolves the second they stepped a little out of line, here. Given the use of the word _attack_ , she supposed it was prudent to assume that the werewolf had killed someone.

Draco's expression didn't even flicker. "Yes. In England, we have a potion we use, but unfortunately it's costly to create. How did your company come by this tea, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, we have persons that travel the world at all times in search of things to that may benefit the Egyptian people," Rahal said, dismissively. "But, as you know, we export as well as import, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps you would be interested in doing business with us to supply your country with our wonderful tea?"

Of course, Draco had anticipated this. He smiled winningly, betraying nothing. "That's why we're here, Mr. Rahal. The Ministry is willing to spare no expense to bring an affordable option home."

"Your country's commitment to diminishing attacks is admirable," Rahal noted.

Nodding, Draco leaned back in his chair. "How much would we be charged per, say, every kilo?"

"Well, a kilo, that's nearly eighty servings of daily rations," the man pointed out. He put a hand up to run his fingers over his moustache, and Hermione nearly rolled her eyes at the size of the rings he had on his fingers. They looked like brightly colored goose eggs. "You use the Galleon, yes? Here, the government pays the equivalent of thirty Galleons per kilo."

Hermione's mouth went dry. That was _less than eight sickles per day_. Hell, that was slightly less than what most people spent on their coffee every morning.

"And including the cost of sending it to England?" Draco asked.

"I would say... fifty of your Galleons per kilo," Rahal decided.

Hermione fought the need to fidget. That was still only about twelve sickles per day. Even if Draco's gambit of bribing the man didn't work, she could _definitely_ work with that. As Draco continued to schmooze the man – complimenting his office, his clothes, and whatever else – Hermione let her thoughts wander excitedly. This was going to change _everything_.

"I think we have a deal," Draco said, beaming and leaning forward to shake Rahal's hand. "Now, the only thing is, we'll need to be able to label it with the ingredients inside. Allergies and the like, you know."

Rahal paused. "Ingredients," he repeated, frowning. He was seeing a potentially huge reaping of profit slip out of his fingers, and he scrambled for a moment to think of a suitable response. "Well, it is a proprietary blend, Mr. Malfoy. We wouldn't be able to release the contents to you. It would cease to be proprietary, at that point."

Leaning back in his chair again, Draco frowned, crossing his legs. "Not necessarily. The proprietary nature of the product is in the _ratio_ of the blend," he argued, smoothly. "We wouldn't be able to recreate it without that ratio."

This time, the pause lingered. Hermione's eyes darted between them as Rahal licked his lips, his silence speaking volumes.

Draco spread his hands, the very picture of reason. "We have to ensure that it's safe for our citizens to consume, you see. If that's not possible, I completely understand, of course. We'll have to keep searching," he sighed, regretfully. "But the labeling laws in our country are very strict. Unless..." Rahal's gaze focused on him, greedily, and Draco leaned forward. "Unless you and I could have a discussion about it. Off the books, that is. The Ministry would be happy to compensate you for your time."

Hermione found it amazing that Rahal seemed to immediately understand what Draco was driving at. If anyone had ever said that to her, she was pretty sure she would've just been confused and annoyed.

Maybe Lucius was right about her lessons on schmoozing.

"My time doesn't come cheap, Mr. Malfoy," Rahal said, in a joking tone. But his eyes were not joking at all. Whatever Draco proposed, it would have to be enough to offset the losses he'd sustain by failing to secure as big of a market as all of the United Kingdom.

Draco smiled benignly. "I don't believe in wasting time, Mr. Rahal. Yours _or_ mine."

Rahal beamed, his teeth faintly yellow. Hermione fought the urge to wrinkle her nose. "We shall meet for coffee tonight," he determined, looking satisfied. "I know a lovely place. You'll come alone, of course."

Draco inclined his head. "Of course."

0o0o0o0o0o0

When he came back that evening, Hermione straightened from the couch and set her book aside. "Well?" she asked, when he didn't immediately say anything. "Did you get it?"

Draco snorted, uncorking the bottle of wine they'd started earlier. "Of course I got it."

Gasping, she jumped to her feet and raced towards him, her bare feet slapping on the kitchen tile. "Oh, my God, you are _amazing_ ," she breathed, inserting herself into his space as he tried to pour the wine into a glass.

He paused in his movements as she kissed him. When she was done, he chuckled. "I know."

"Oh, you are such an arrogant prat," she muttered, but no matter how she tried to look chiding, she couldn't get the grin to go away. "Tell me _everything_ so that I can write it down. How much did it cost you, anyway?"

Draco shrugged. "Nothing we can't easily part with."

"Well, I've got to hand it to you," Hermione admitted, begrudgingly. "You did it. I'm glad you went. I'm sure they would've just thrown me out onto the street, cackling, if I'd just gone in there and politely asked where they got their tea from. Where _is_ it from, anyway?"

He swallowed his sip of wine, leaning on the counter. "Nepal. It's about half aconite. The other ingredients are local ingredients that dull the poisonous effects of the aconite. There are some side effects – people tend to feel a little out-of-sorts for about an hour after drinking – but nothing too sinister. It's probably best consumed before bed. I guess there's sometimes dizziness and an inability to really focus. He said that when people first start drinking it, there's also some mild nausea, but that goes away as they get used to it."

Hermione scrambled for some parchment and a quill to start writing it all down. "And does it have any long-term effects?"

"Not that they've noticed." He told her where, exactly, in Nepal it was produced; it was some mountain village that had expanded immensely since the Egyptians had started buying the tea they made, there. She could only imagine how much of an economical boost that little village would get when the entire United Kingdom started buying it, too.

Once he'd finished, she looked at her notes and felt tears prick her eyes. For a moment, she was simply overwhelmed by it all.

It was done. She'd _figured out how to diminish attacks_. Soon, there would be no earthly reason to fear werewolves, and they would be able to come out of hiding, get jobs, and have families like everyone else. Like Lupin had never _dreamed_ he could.

She'd done it.

"Why are you crying?" Draco demanded, sharply.

The noise she made was somewhere between a sob and a bark of laughter, and she threw the parchment and quill back on the counter as she whirled towards him, flinging her arms around his neck. He yelped in surprise as he was thrown against the counter, just barely managing to set his glass of wine down before it sloshed all over the place. His face scrunched a bit as she peppered it with frantic kisses.

"Hermione," he protested. " _Hermione_."

She pressed her lips against his, so overcome with glee that she couldn't help herself. "I love you," she whispered against his lips. "I love you so much."

"Well, that goes without saying," he grumbled, but she could feel his lips twitching with a faint smile.

"Even though you're a huge brat."

He hummed in agreement, his hands smoothing down her back and curling possessively around her arse. She ground her hips into his, and he broke the kiss with an incredulous laugh. "Is this what gets you going? Achieving your political aspirations? You are absolutely mad-" He cut himself off with a faint hiss when she reached down and massaged him through his trousers. "Objection redacted."

Hermione smirked up at him. "What do you want to do with me, tonight?" she whispered. His eyes darkened a bit, and she added, "I'm really open for _anything_."

Draco groaned as she continued to stroke him through his clothes. Then, his expression lit up, and his eyes flicked towards the door leading to the balcony. "Outside," he decided, his face taking on a pleading tone. "Out on the balcony."

"Yes," she agreed, promptly, and his eyes flew wide open with disbelief.

She let his crotch go, instead grabbing his hand and towing him towards the balcony doors. After he recovered, he said, "Okay, what _else_ are you trying to do, politically? Because consider me at your disposal. For anything. Want me to free the house-elves? I'll do it. I'll emancipate every single one."

Laughing, she opened the balcony door. "Shut up," she advised him, pushing him towards one of the deck chairs.

A brief glance around confirmed that no one _should_ see. They were on the top floor of the hotel and the nearest balcony was about three hundred feet away, and empty. There were no lights on inside that suite, so she figured she was safe.

Draco fell back against the chair, swallowing hard as he watched her.

Shooting him a coy look, she reached up to untie the string holding the front of her dress up. As she did so, he settled against the chair more firmly, his lips slightly parted. She released the strings once they were untied, feeling the cold desert air prick at her nipples, making them stiffen.

"Merlin," Draco murmured, his eyes locked on her.

Hermione gently shimmied out of the dress, letting it pool around her feet. The moon was nearly full, making him gleam like marble, but when she stepped towards him and straddled his lap, he was radiating that same ungodly warmth he always did. It only took a second for his hands to start roaming, leaving heated imprints all over her skin.

She brushed her lips against his, taking her time and letting him explore. As he did, she undid the millions of buttons on his waistcoat and his shirt.

Easing him out of his clothes – it took forever because he didn't want to take his hands off of her long enough to yank his arms out of the sleeves – she scooted back down from his lap and focused on undoing the buttons of his trousers. "How many do you want?" she murmured.

It took him a second to realize that she meant _orgasms_ , and he sucked in a ragged breath. "How long are you willing to be out here for?"

"As long as you want," Hermione promised, and he stiffened so fucking quickly that it actually began to hurt, given the confines of his trousers. She got the buttons undone and he sighed in relief as he lifted his hips, letting her pull them off of him.

"Three," he decided, praying it wasn't too much.

But she just smiled. "Three," she agreed, urging his knees apart. Then, she knelt between them, sucking the entire length of him into the heat of her mouth.

Given the situation, it was an almost embarrassingly short amount of time before he came. He thought he made up for it by returning the favor while he recovered, though, making her shudder with pleasure _twice_ before he was even able to get hard again. Then, she rode him, and the sight of the moonlight bathing her tanned skin as she rolled her hips over his could have probably cured _cancer_.

They fell asleep after his third one, and she ended up jostling him awake when the cold finally got to her, towing him back inside with a dumb, sleepy grin on his face.


	76. Hercules Is A Rude Bird

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Six: Hercules Is A Rude Bird**

 

…

 

The weekend ended sooner than she would have liked. After she got her tea squared away on Friday, she'd dragged Draco to every remotely historical or educational thing that she could possibly cram into the remaining two days (except for the two hour window which he insisted be spent at least _looking_ around the campus).

 

She went home alone, and when she entered her flat, she became newly aware of how empty it felt – especially with reminders of Draco all over, between the potions workbench, his mugs, his books.

 

Sighing, Hermione took a shower and threw herself into bed, only tossing and turning for about an hour before she finally managed to fall asleep.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

It was Wednesday before Harry finally said, “You know, it's _really quick_ to portkey to Cairo” during their lunch break.

 

“What?” she murmured, frowning.

 

He gestured at her helplessly. “I'm sick of you sitting there, looking like your husband _died in the war_ ,” he huffed, shaking his head. “Portkeys are instantaneous. You can go meet him for dinner and be back by bedtime.”

 

Straightening, Hermione tried to school her expression into something less depressing. “Don't be ridiculous. First of all, I can last a measly couple of weeks on my own. And, secondly, I don't think he'd appreciate being distracted right now. The classes there are no joke, from what I understand.”

 

“Come over for dinner. I'll invite Ron and Susan,” Harry offered.

 

“I'm _fine_ \--”

 

He held up his hands. “It's not a pity-invitation! Ginny misses you, and she's bored at home, now that she's too big to go to practice. If you're not going to Cairo this weekend, you should hang out with her. I have to go into the field on Saturday and I hate to leave her alone in this state.”

 

Sighing through her nose, Hermione tried to think of the last time she'd seen Ginny. It had to have been at least a week – a stretch of time usually unheard of, unless one of them was on vacation. “Sure.”

 

Beaming, Harry shoveled the last of his lasagna into his mouth. “Oh, also,” he said, swallowing quickly. “Did Narcissa tell you that the donations are coming in? More money than I think anyone expected.” His voice dropped a bit, and she leaned forward. “We're talking hundreds of thousands, here. We might hit a million.”

 

“Galleons?” Hermione spluttered, stunned. Although all of the attendees of the fundraiser had been rich enough, she hadn't imagined they'd willingly part with so much. “I mean, that's good.”

 

“Better than good. Although now I have to figure out where to put it all.”

 

“You'll find somewhere,” she said, a little grimly. “Believe you me. Once you start, I'm sure you'll run through all that money faster than you think.”

 

Sobering, Harry nodded. “You're probably right. Mind looking over my notes?”

 

“Of course not,” she scoffed, incredulous. “Any time.”

 

He stood and pointed at her with his fork. “I'm holding you to that,” he threatened, and then paused, wrinkling his nose. “Oh, wait, that's not a threat. You like boring things. Nevermind. This'll be like a _carnival_ for you, won't it?”

 

She made a face at him, not even deigning to answer as she gathered up her own tray.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

As soon as she stepped in the door, she was met with Crookshanks' insistent yowling for food and Hercules' angry, threatening hoots. As she eased into the kitchen, she saw the dumb owl puffing himself up at the window as a tinier brown owl just outside cowered, a letter trembling slightly in his beak.

 

“Get away from there, you nasty thing,” Hermione snapped, flapping her hands at Hercules and ushering him back towards his perch.

 

When he was safely away, she opened the window to let the poor little thing inside, offering him a blueberry from the fridge as she set the letter on the counter. The tiny owl – a public use one, she'd wager – nibbled happily and pressed against her hand, its eyes closing contentedly when she rubbed its tiny head. After a moment, she shooed it back out and opened the letter.

 

_I can't believe it's been three days and you haven't even owled me. You're heartless._

 

_D_

 

Snorting with fond amusement, she penned a quick one back, enduring a nip on her knuckles from Draco's stupid bird for her trouble.

 

_Maybe I would have, if your owl wasn't a living manifestation of incandescent fury that tries to draw blood every time I share a room with it._

 

_Also, stop signing yourself as 'D'! It looks ridiculous._

 

_Hermione_

 

Hercules swooped out the kitchen window, looking more than happy to have an errand. And, honestly, Hermione was happy to have that stupidly rude owl out of her flat.

 

Feeling better since the letter, she decided to catch up on her reading and go to bed early.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

Hercules was waiting for her in the morning. She snatched the letter from him before he even had a chance to bite her, shying around him entirely to read the parchment in the living room.

 

_Hercules is a perfectly charming owl when he is treated correctly. You're abusive. And he, of course, is intelligent enough to pick up on this. Animals have a very developed intuition. And I like 'D.' I like to think it gives me an enigmatic air of charisma._

 

_D_

 

He signed the letter extra-large and put a little curl to the edges. The absolute git.

 

_You're right, it is sort of cool. It reminds me of the Weasley twins. They did that at Hogwarts all the time._

 

_H_

 

Smug, she sent Hercules back out.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

The response was as instantaneous as time allowed, given the distance Hercules had to travel. It was short and simple and perfectly indignant, and Hermione decided to frame it and put it on her desk in lieu of an actual wedding picture.

 

_You are the worst person I have ever met._

 

_Draco_

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“You are not skipping your lessons with me so that you can sit with your friends and daydream,” Lucius said, sternly. “I only require you for a handful of hours, and if you want to maintain your upward mobility at the rate required to become Minister before you're forty, you _will_ give me that.”

 

Hermione swallowed a groan, slouching in her chair a little. “But--”

 

“Absolutely not, Hermione.” His eyebrows rose, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in her mulish expression. He maintained the stare until her nose wrinkled, signaling her defeat, and then returned to cutting his pork loin.

 

She slouched a bit more, until he set down his silverware and gave her a pointed look.

 

The victory was a small one, but it was a victory nonetheless, and she felt a little better as she straightened up. “I feel like if you were giving these meaningless elocution lessons to anyone else, you wouldn't be _half_ so mean,” she complained.

 

“Rest assured that you can handle it.”

 

“Your confidence in me would be so uplifting if you weren't so _you_.”

 

He hummed his acknowledgment around his fork as he took another bite, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “Tell me about the tea.”

 

Brightening a bit, Hermione leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table before his glare sent them back against her sides. “You are such a tyrant,” she huffed, but was too excited to keep from hurrying on. “It's made in the Himalayas – near the border of Tibet, actually. I guess that's where the name comes from, it's kind of the words 'wolf' and 'tea' smushed together. Anyway. It's about half pure aconite, and the other ingredients basically make it so the poison doesn't just kill a poor bloke outright.”

 

“And do you have the blend percentages?”

 

She grinned. “I do, thanks to your son. I really think he could have been good in the Ministry, if he'd actually wanted to join, you know.”

 

“I do know. That is why his disinterest is so frustrating,” Lucius muttered. But he seemed content knowing that Draco wasn't a completely hopeless case in regards to such matters. “If you have the percentages, is there a possibility of internal cultivation and production?”

 

“Yes,” Hermione said, with a bit of a relieved sigh. She couldn't believe this journey was nearly over. “I have to talk things over with Neville, but... if we can produce it here? We're looking at a cost of barely anything.”

 

He inclined his head. “It seems you have found your solution.”

 

She eyed him speculatively. “I'm going to take it a step farther. I think I've figured out the subsidy conundrum.”

 

Lucius heaved a sigh. “And here I thought your naivete had finally expired,” he intoned, with a _tsk_. “However, as your mentor, I suppose I should indulge you. Tell me what you _think_ you have figured out.”

 

“Don't care for the condescension,” Hermione noted, cheerfully, pointing at him.

 

“I'm eager to be proven wrong.”

 

“Still _insanely_ condescending,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Listen, they want that registry to work, right? What if apothecaries can offer a cheaper version of the tea – at cost, even – to only those who are on the registry? If you're not registered, you pay the market price, whatever it is. And the Ministry picks up the difference so the brewers aren't losing money, and they actually have a _shot_ of getting anyone to sign their name to that daft list.”

 

Lucius regarded her over his wine glass for a long moment. Begrudgingly, he was forced to admit, “It's not terrible.”

 

“A- _ha_. You think it might work,” she accused, pointing at him.

 

He swatted her finger away. “We're in a nice restaurant. Don't be rude. Or loud,” he added, with a faint sniff. “And it is not very probable, but it's also not as exceedingly impossible as every other half-witted idea you've concocted.”

 

She couldn't get any smugger. “I can translate Snobby Git, now. You think it's brilliant.”

 

“It shows a small measure of improvement,” he drawled.

 

She looked ready to argue, but finally sighed and waved it away. “Alright, fine, I'll take it. Would it kill you to compliment me and keep my self-confidence from utterly withering in your presence?”

 

He considered it. “It might.”

 

“You're a complete arsehole.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

The letter was waiting for her when she came home that night.

 

_Put on the knickers I got you._

 

_Draco_

 

She thought of the _torture underwear_ he'd bought for Christmas and made an incredulous noise. He was insane if he thought she was going to submit to that during a workweek. She needed her sleep.

 

_Absolutely not. It's a Thursday. Ask again Saturday night. I'd say Friday if your father wasn't subjecting me to his torturous 'lessons.' If I go in there half-rested he'll flay me._

 

_Hermione_

 

She sent Hercules off (resisting the urge to hex him when he took a chunk out of her thumb) with a chortle. As she watched the bird diminish into a little dot on the horizon, her smile faded away. It hadn't even been a full week, and she wasn't really prepared to admit to herself that she missed him terribly already, but...

 

Well, it was hard to have to wait a day to read whatever snarky response he'd send back.

 

Hermione had never been one to proclaim boredom – she was a master of filling her time and had more on her to-do list than any reasonable person ought – but making dinner-for-one in an empty flat made her strangely restless.

 

Annoyed at herself, she stood to clean her dish and tried not to think about it.

 

“I'm completely buggered if I can't even go a full week,” she muttered. It wasn't as though she could telecommute to work from Egypt, and really, she'd only been living with him for a handful of months. Like everything else Draco did, the fact that he'd wormed his way so permanently into her life was _very annoying_.

 

But she missed him. She admitted it to herself while in bed, staring at the clock and watching midnight scroll past, unable to fall asleep.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

_The day my father dictates our sex life will be the last day we HAVE a sex life. Wear them to work._

 

_Draco_

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

_You're barking! No._

 

_Hermione_

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

Midway through an extremely boring meeting about the working political relationship between the Ministry and the trolls, though, she regretted that decision. Just a little.

 

Not that she'd ever tell him.

 

For the first time in her life, she found herself looking at the clock on her desk, counting the minutes until five. She didn't particularly have anyplace to be, but her focus was lacking and had been for a few days, now. Maybe it was the lack of sleep (she _refused_ to consider that it was a lack of Draco, because she wasn't some silly nit who couldn't function without a man, damn it), or maybe it was her preoccupation with the aconite tea. Or maybe she was going mad, finally.

 

Either way, when quitting time rolled around, she shot out of her cubicle and ignored all the stunned looks from her coworkers.

 

Maybe she'd head over to Grimmauld Place and have a sleepover. Maybe invite Susan and do a big girly one, the kind that idiots thought contained pillowfights in slinky nighties. Really, anything to occupy her mind would be grand.

 

She waited in line for the Floo, tapping her foot and trying not to be too impatient.

 

_Distraction distraction want a distraction_ , her mind hummed, as she sank into the green flames. _Just need something to distract myself with for a weekend, then one more week of work. I can do it. Just need a good distraction._

 

Spilling out into her living room, she blinked when Draco uncrossed his legs on the couch and drawled, “You actually left at five. I think I might be proud.”

 

Hermione stared at him for a beat, as her brain's restless murmuring for a distraction faded out.

 

Well, this would certainly do.

 

“What are you doing here?” she finally managed to stammer, painfully aware that her heart rate had increased (so embarrassing). “I thought you were going to be in Cairo for a full two weeks.”

 

Standing, Draco shrugged and let his eyes flick away for a moment. “Studying in a hotel is distracting.”

 

The lie caught her off-guard, and, impossibly, she found herself grinning at it. “Is that so.”

 

“It's loud,” he insisted.

 

Pressing her lips together, Hermione swallowed a laugh. Then, sobering, she murmured, “I've really missed you, too.”

 

In the next second, he'd crossed the room and grabbed her, pressing his lips against hers hungrily as he folded his arms around her and squeezed. Her arms twined around his neck just as greedily, clinging to him as he snogged the absolute life out of her. After a minute, he muttered into her lips, “Put on the knickers.”

 

She laughed so hard it broke the kiss. “You are so spoiled.”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

“No,” she said, primly. After a beat, she added, “But go get them, just in case you convince me.”

 

His grin was easy and wide. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

 

“You'll have to do _way_ better than _that_ ,” she huffed, and he chuckled as he headed down the hallway towards the bedroom. “If you're going to be lazy about it, we might as well throw them away.”

 

“I was warming up!”

 

“My arse,” she called back, taking off her coat and scarf. She couldn't stop smiling, a little giddy thanks to Draco's unexpected appearance. “And don't think I forgot about the days of torture you put me through in those things. On _Christmas_. With my _parents_.”

 

Draco leaned back out of the bedroom. “I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you didn't like it,” he challenged.

 

She very maturely stuck her tongue out at him and headed into the kitchen to make some tea, and heard him go _hah!_ before he went back to hunting. “And how long do you plan to torment me this time?” she wondered, raising her voice a bit to be heard.

 

“Well, I didn't appreciate you inserting a reference to my father during negotiations. That's going to cost you.”

 

“It was a valid concern!” Hermione defended.

 

“Listen,” he said, voice firm as he walked into the kitchen, the torture knickers in his hand. “When we are in the middle of a sexy conversation, all references to parents are prohibited. Also, I _can't believe_ I have to sit here and formalize that as a rule. That should be intuitive.”

 

She snorted. “Oh, you put up with _so much_ , dealing with me,” she said, rolling her eyes.

 

“I'm a saint,” Draco agreed, somberly. “Now put your vibrating knickers on and let me shag you until my cock falls off.”

 


	77. We Never Really Grow Up

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Seven: We Never Really Grow Up**

 

…

 

Ginny couldn't look at the pair of them without making smug, wheedling noises. Hermione endured it stoically for as long as she could, sipping her tea loudly to try and drown it out. But after spending two hours getting her mind bent into a pretzel by Lucius, she was in no condition to outlast the redhead's annoying antics.

 

So she broke before Draco, as usual. “ _What_ , Ginny!”

 

“He couldn't _bear_ to be without you,” Ginny crooned, and Draco rolled his eyes. “You're infatuated with each other. I think it's adorable. When I'm a writer for the _Prophet_ , I'm going to write a story about it. Forbidden love. Sneaking glances at each other across the Great Hall.” Her eyes widened a bit. “Running off to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where you know you won't get caught, and your love can blossom int--”

 

“Oh, dear God, please stop,” Hermione breathed, horrified. “First of all, we didn't fancy each other at Hogwarts.”

 

She waved her hand dismissively. “I had to make some creative choices for my readership.”

 

“You don't _have_ a readership!” Draco snapped, incredulous.

 

“But I will! And they will depend on me to uplift their souls and let them believe in love conquering all, again,” Ginny insisted.

 

Draco glared at her. “You're just covering local games, you half-wit.”

 

She straightened as much as her bulging belly would allow. “Don't call a pregnant woman a half-wit! You'll jinx the baby!” she gasped, pointing at him.

 

“I _do_ jinx your baby,” Draco shot back, pointing at her stomach. He even crooked his finger like an old, angry witch from Macbeth. “May it be cursed with a big, fat, crooked Snape nose.”

 

Ginny _screamed_ like she'd been shot, falling back onto the couch and clutching her middle protectively. “Take it back!”

 

“Never.”

 

“If she comes out Snape-nosed, I'm going to bludgeon you to death with my least favorite broom.”

 

He regarded her smugly. “Well worth it.”

 

“Infants,” Hermione declared, pointing at each of them in turn. As Albus toddled past, she picked him up and put him on her lap, where he squirmed and tried to get back to the floor. With a sigh, she let him go back to his playing and crossed her legs, instead. “So you know it's a girl?”

 

Ginny smoothed her hands over her stomach and smiled proudly. “Had a Healer take a diagnostic. I get to put someone in tiny dresses! Yay!” She clapped, beaming.

 

“Think she'll be as rambunctious as your other two?”

 

As if on cue, James snatched the stuffed owl out of Albus' hands and pushed him onto his butt, making the toddler burst into a series of agonized wails. Draco stood with a sharp, _Hey, now_ and James fled the room as Draco took up chase.

 

Ginny watched James run with narrowed eyes and muttered, “Merlin help me if she is.”

 

Scooping Albus up again, Hermione tried to soothe him by joggling him on her knees. He was inconsolable, pointing at the spot where he'd fallen accusingly.

 

Elsewhere, she could hear James' little steps thudding and Draco barking at him to return the owl _immediately_. With a ragged sigh, she glanced back at Ginny and admitted, “You know, it's times like these that I don't really envy you.”

 

“I don't bloody well envy me, either, times like these,” Ginny snorted, and held out her hands.

 

Albus quieted a little when he was put into his mum's care, his crying dying down to some choking sobs and sniffles. She perched him on top of her belly and rocked him, making a faint crooning noise. He'd just stuck his thumb in his mouth, eyes going droopy with exhaustion, when Draco re-entered the room holding a squirming and kicking James.

 

With a grim look, he gave Albus the owl back and marched upstairs to put James into time-out.

 

Draco's voice was stern as he told James about the conditions of time-out – he had to stay in his room and could not play with his toys, but instead had to sit on his bed and think about what he'd done – and Hermione could hear James' screeching voice dotting the little speech with _NO NO NO_. Relentlessly patient, Draco got through the rules and came back down the stairs. Behind him, James began crying and yelling earnest.

 

From the sounds of it, though, he wasn't leaving his bed.

 

Standing as he made it back to the living room, Hermione reminded him, “You know, you'll have to do that full-time at some point in the future. Looking forward to it?”

 

“ _Our_ children aren't going to have any Weasley in them. They'll be fine.”

 

“Hey!” Ginny protested. She watched Hermione head into the kitchen and added, “Oh, bring me some biscuits!”

 

She waved in acknowledgment and went to put the kettle on. Distantly, she heard Draco drawl, “So, you've completely given up on the idea of returning to anything resembling athletic shape when this is over, have you?”

 

“If you think I'm too pregnant to hex your bollocks off, Malfoy--”

 

“I _dare_ you to try and find your wand, right now. If it's in your pants, I know for a fact you can't reach it. Go on. Hex me. I'm waiting.”

 

Dear Lord. “Stop agitating her!” Hermione called back into the living room.

 

It was too late. Judging from Draco's yelp, Ginny _had_ managed to find her wand. To help teach him a lesson, Hermione didn't go to intervene; she just waited patiently for the kettle to boil while Draco managed to squeal out a few apologies that Ginny ruthlessly ignored.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“I am home to _visit you_ for two measly days, and you're going to put me to work?” Draco demanded in a faint whine, his eyes still closed as he tried to bury his face into his pillow.

 

“It's just a little cleaning, you absolute toddler.”

 

He groaned, rolling himself tighter into the blankets in wordless protest. Lips pursing, Hermione picked up the broom and began poking his back with it. When she got a particularly nasty jab into what she surmised was his kidneys, he groaned again, louder and angrier, and sat up to glare at her. “Why did I ever marry you?!” he demanded.

 

“Legal obligation,” Hermione reminded him, patiently. “It's already half-eleven. You've been sleeping for twelve hours.”

 

He shook his head. “I stayed up to study!”

 

“You didn't go to bed at three!”

 

“I _could have_ , how would _you_ know?”

 

She banged the broom into the floor like a wizard's staff. “Up! I'm just asking you to sweep the kitchen. And the bathroom. … And the front doorway.”

 

Draco gaped at her. “The _front door_?”

 

“There's dead leaves!”

 

He threw the blankets off grumpily and snatched the broom from her. “I'm _never_ coming back home again,” he decided, at top volume. He got louder as he walked away. “I'm going to _run away_ and live in Cairo until I _die_. And I'm going to sleep with a bunch of Egyptian women who don't try and make me sweep doorways. They'll be so grateful to have a handsome man in their bed--”

 

“Oh, my God,” Hermione intoned, disbelieving.

 

“ _That they'll do all the sweeping for me_ ,” he finished, raising his voice to yell over her. “And all I'll have to do is sleep and shag and sleep.”

 

Hermione headed towards the kitchen to finish the dishes. “Well, that sounds perfectly lovely. Let me know how that works out for you. I'm _so_ eager to hear about your life of luxury with your own Egyptian harem.”

 

His grumbling faded out as he went to do the front doorway first.

 

She was nearly done with the dishes when he came back in, sweeping all the dust on the kitchen floor onto her bare feet. Hermione glared at him while he did it. “Are you quite through?” she asked, archly, when the floor was free of debris.

 

Instead of answering, he got the dust pan and tried to sweep the pile – her included – into it.

 

“What are you--” she protested, pushing him away.

 

“What?” he asked, innocently. “I'm just trying to take out the rubbish.”

 

She knocked the broom out of his hand. “You're such a prat!” she squealed, when he bodily lifted her up and began carrying her to the door. “Let me down _this instant_!”

 

“I need to take the rubbish to the dumpster!”

 

Hermione was half-yelling and half-laughing when he opened the door and tried to take her through it. She grasped at the doorframe, kicking her feet while he wrestled with her. She was sure they were making a racket and a neighbor was going to pop out at any second to free her from her captor.

 

Finally, he put her down, and she slapped his shoulder repeatedly while he tried to conquer his own smile.

 

“You arse,” she accused, having lost the war with her own laughter and now wearing a stupid grin.

 

He shrugged his shoulders a bit, not denying it, and smirked as he tugged her closer by the waist. “Can we go out for a late breakfast?”

 

“Mm. I _suppose_ ,” she sighed, as he leaned down to kiss her. They were both smiling a bit too much for it, though, honestly. When he pulled back, she added, “And it's called brunch, at this point.”

 

“Don't correct me,” he growled, and pinched her bum as she turned to go back inside, eliciting another outraged squeal.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“Maybe we should get you a mobile,” Hermione murmured, thoughtfully, on the walk back from the restaurant. At Draco's blank look, she dug her own out. “A phone. Then we could call each other instead of making me deal with your wretched owl.”

 

Draco looked skeptical. “Doesn't that thing only work in the toilet, or something?”

 

She grimaced and put it away again. “The magic can make it go a little ends up,” she admitted. “But it'd be nice to actually have a _conversation_ while you're away.”

 

“Don't you think that's a little much, for one more week?”

 

Her nose wrinkled, and she scowled at the smug look that crossed his face. “Oh, shut up.”

 

“I'll be back Friday, and this time mostly for good,” he promised, amused. “Besides, can't your stupidly brilliant mind come up with something that won't cut out in a magical environment? I'm surprised instant written communications hasn't been invented yet, to be quite honest.”

 

She laughed. “By the time I came up with it, you'll have no doubt finished your schooling and we won't need it.”

 

“Do it for the masses, then.”

 

Hermione gasped, putting a hand to her heart. “Oh, my God, did _Draco Malfoy_ just suggest that I spend my time on something that doesn't directly benefit him?” she asked, eyes comically wide. He rolled his eyes at her, and she persisted, “Wait, are you really you? Harry? Harry, is that you? Did you polyjuice yourself, again?”

 

He regarded her sourly. “I find it insulting that you can even briefly entertain the notion that I am _anything_ like Saint Scarhead Potter.”

 

“It was a compliment!”

 

“It was _not_.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

They stayed up late, that night, and to her surprise they spent the extra time just talking quietly in the dark of her bedroom. Not even about anything important, just chatting. She talked about work. He talked about school. They shared their thoughts and opinions on what was happening in either respective place.

 

She couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything like this. Sleep claimed them, eventually, but only left them with a few blissful hours before her alarm clock was blaring, and he was returning to Cairo.

 

Just one more week. She'd made it through one, already. She could do a second one, surely.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“Impossibly, this is even worse than last week,” Harry said, shaking his head a bit in disbelief. Hermione scowled at him as he threw his hands up. “I can't believe it.”

 

“Already?” Ron scoffed. “It's only Tuesday!”

 

Susan elbowed him. “I think it's sweet.”

 

“Everyone stop talking about me,” Hermione ordered, pointing at all of them in turn. “I'm perfectly fine. I have not gone mad. I'm fine. Unless you lot _don't_ stop, in which instance I will go from being fine to perfectly mad, and I will kill every last one of you with my bare hands.”

 

Ron opened his mouth, then promptly thought better of it and turned to Susan. “So what are you ordering?”

 

Hermione glared at him a bit, but relaxed when they began to debate the items on the menu.

 

Harry leaned in, his shoulder nudging hers, and dropped his voice. “I've never seen you _lovesick_ , before. Not even through all those years of fancying Ron. I have to say, it's extremely disconcerting. I think I'm going to accuse Draco of feeding you love potions. That's the only reasonable explanation.”

 

“ _That's_ the only reasonable explanation,” Hermione repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “I shudder to think that you're an Auror.”

 

“The best one there is,” Harry added, and jabbed her in the side when she snorted.

 

Beside him, Ginny grimaced. “Get up, Ron, I've got to wee again.”

 

Ron groaned and scraped his chair back. “For Merlin's sake, will you please just sit on the outside? This is the fortieth time I've had to stand for you. What is the _matter_ with you?”

 

“Baby's sitting on my bladder!” she huffed, shoving him aside on her way to the loo.

 

He glared after his sister and then looked down at Susan, who looked a little tormented as she fidgeted. “Don't tell me you have to go, too.”

 

She winced. “I didn't want to say anything.”

 

Sighing, he waved her towards the ladies' room. “Go, go.” As he dropped into his chair, he added, “I can't believe how often they have to go to the loo. It's mental. I'm not mad, am I? That's absolutely starkers. I swear Susan is in the bathroom every five seconds.”

 

“I think it's normal,” Harry murmured, thoughtfully. “I definitely remember that happening with James and Albus.”

 

“It is,” Hermione assured them.

 

“Thank Merlin we don't have to go through that. I can't imagine how I'd get anything done,” Ron said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the loo. “Between that and not being able to bend over, I'm more than happy to leave the pregnancies to you lot.”

 

“As usual, Ron, your nuanced and delicate understanding of the situation is pure inspiration,” Hermione muttered, sarcastically, before picking her menu back up and snapping it open.

 

He spread his hands and looked to Harry imploringly, who was shaking his head and trying not to smile. “What did I say!”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

When she went to visit Neville _this_ time, she waited for his class to end outside of the green house and well out of sight. Only when she saw students filing back towards the main castle did she pop her head in and call out, “Oh, Professor...”

 

His face broke out into a beaming smile when he saw her. “Hermione! You weren't lying when you said you'd visit more, were you?” he laughed, folding her into a hug.

 

“I did promise!”

 

Releasing her, he chuckled. “So you did. I don't suppose it's an accident you came during lunch, either. Did you want to head to Hogsmeade for a quick bite?”

 

“I'd love to. And I actually have a... interesting idea that I want you to give me some insight on,” she added, grimacing a bit when she realized it probably looked like she only visited in order to do so. Well, it was true that she had mostly visited to do so, but that wasn't something she wanted to _advertise_.

 

Fortunately, Neville didn't look very put off; in fact, he looked chuffed to be the go-to for such things. “Aconite, again?”

 

“Yes,” she agreed. “But with a little twist on the usual. I hope you're ready to have your mind blown.”

 

“Oof. I should really be getting my mind blown on a full stomach,” he decided, grabbing his robe and scarf. “Let's go. I skipped breakfast and I'm absolutely famished.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

When she was done, he looked positively astonished, his mouth open in a wide O of shock. Recovering slowly, he shook his head. “A _tea_? It can't possibly be that easy of a solution. I can't believe no one's ever looked into that, before,” he said, eyes widening a bit. “To think something like that's been in production for half a century and England's never heard of it. That's downright embarrassing, that is.”

 

“It sort of is,” Hermione admitted. Of course, the fact that she'd never thought to ask before was just as embarrassing. “But they've been making it work. There's side effects, of course, but if we could cultivate the ingredients _here_ , you could sell it at a Galleon an ounce and still make a little profit.”

 

“How much land would you need to cultivate?” he wondered.

 

She shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea. That's kind of where I'm hoping you can come in. You're the expert on these things.”

 

Nodding a bit, he leaned back in his chair as his eyes unfocused a bit. “Give me some time to look at the numbers. I can owl them to you by next week, probably. Actually, I may know some people looking for a new crop they can sell. If that subsidy thing actually works out, maybe they'd be willing to set some of their land aside for it.”

 

“That'd be brilliant, Neville, thank you.”

 

“I always knew you were going to change the world, you know,” he said, looking proud. Hermione felt her face heat a bit, and she was shaking her head as he insisted, “No, no, I did, really. We could all tell in first year. Just one look at you, and we were all like, _that one's going to upend everything, she is_.”

 

Stifling an embarrassed smile, Hermione pleaded, “Oh, stop it.”

 

“Professor Lupin would be so proud of you,” he added, a bit more soberly. “Dumbledore, too.”

 

Sobering, Hermione felt her eyes prickle a bit. “Thanks, Neville. I couldn't have done this without, you know. If I'd never brought it up to you, I'd still be trying to figure out how to make Wolfsbane cost less and running myself in circles.”

 

He smiled at her, reaching across the table to clap her on the shoulder. “I'm at your disposal any time.”

 


	78. Elocution Lessons

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Eight: Elocution Lessons**

 

…

 

“Lunch,” Harry declared, knocking on the wall of her cubicle.

 

“Nnnn,” she groaned. “No, I can't, I can't, today.” His eyes narrowed, and she grimaced and put her hands together pleadingly. “Seriously, Harry, I'm so close on this tea thing, and I've nearly got that proposal for subsidizing it drafted. I can't stop now, I'll lose my momentum.”

 

He stepped in and plucked the quill from her hand. “No, you won't,” he said, firmly. “In fact, the only thing that could possibly risk your momentum is dying of starvation, at this point, something you seem entirely too keen to do.”

 

“You are so needlessly dramatic.”

 

His eyebrows rose a bit. “Get up. It's half an hour. Hardly the end of the world.”

 

Hermione groaned again, kicking her feet petulantly for a second before hoisting herself out of her chair. “Don't you have fieldwork to do?” she asked, sourly.

 

“I find it just _so charming_ that you'd rather I risk my life in the field than suffer a thirty-minute lunch break,” he said, brightly. “Really, I do. One of the most charming things about you. When people ask me, _What draws you to Hermione?_ That's the thing I can always--”

 

“Oh, my God, I'm _going_ ,” she huffed, stalking out of her cubicle.

 

He followed her, continuing. “It's a comfort, I'll say, to know that she's constantly rooting for my demise so that she can starve herself in her cubicle.”

 

Lips pursed, she twisted her head about to glare at him.

 

“And when she expires, I'll be waiting on the other side of the veil to slap her upside her head,” he finished, cheerfully.

 

“Done?” she grit.

 

“Quite.”

 

With a snort, she called the lift, crossing her arms and refusing to talk to him the entire way to the cafeteria.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“Oh, Luna and Goyle set a date,” Harry said, abruptly.

 

Hermione stopped poking at what had been generously referred to as 'meatloaf' up in the line. She'd nearly forgotten about that, actually. “Oh,” she said, frowning a bit. “When is it?”

 

“March. And Romilda and Percy are probably going to go around the same time, too. None of them want to make a thing of it, they're just going to do a quick service and get the papers signed,” he added, with a faint shrug. He didn't blame them, and neither did Hermione. “My _general understanding_ is that Romilda's going to try and get pregnant as soon as possible so she can get out sooner. I think Goyle wants that, too, but with Luna's lifestyle, I'm not sure it's possible.”

 

Twisting her lips around a bit, Hermione began mashing the faux-meatloaf a bit. She didn't have much of an appetite. “It seems cruel, that they're not letting Goyle and Romilda just marry each other. She's a half-blood, he's a pureblood, what do they care?”

 

Harry shrugged. “Honestly, I've not the foggiest. Maybe they're worried about having to re-pair Luna and Percy.”

 

“Ugh. Well, does Luna want any of us to witness?”

 

He chuckled, wryly. “I doubt she's even thought about it. We should go and support her, anyway, I suppose.”

 

Hermione sighed. For all that some of the matches had worked out, it was easy to forget that not all of them had. A lot of good relationships had been destroyed by this dimwitted law. “Let's change the subject,” she suggested. “Besides, I'm supposed to be extending formal invitations to Pansy's for a dinner party. She even said Luna could come, as long as she left her Nargle-hunting stuff behind.”

 

Laughing, Harry reached across and stole her rice pudding, ignoring her indignant squawk (mostly for show, anyway). “She heard about Mr. Malfoy's study?”

 

“Of course. I've been telling _everyone_.”

 

“Well, I'm sure Mr. Malfoy is absolutely chuffed about that.”

 

Smugly, she pushed her tray away and leaned on her elbows. “It's my only way to get back at him for those torturous Saturday lessons,” she admitted. “Pettiness is the only weapon I've got. And honestly, I think he's begrudgingly impressed as much as he's irritated by it. Being petty and back-handed is his specialty, after all.”

 

“Ah, so you _are_ learning. Hopefully you don't forget your humble roots when you're Minister for Magic.”

 

“Oh, yes, my exceedingly humble roots of being best friends with a celebrity and the savior of British wizarding kind,” Hermione said, in a dry tone. “I'm sure 'humble' is the word I would have used to describe my roots.”

 

He rolled his eyes as he finished her pudding. “This doesn't count if you don't eat anything, you know.”

 

“I ate the mashed potatoes!”

 

“That's not a _meal_ , you nit,” he returned, sternly. “If you're not going to eat here, I'm going to make you take your full hour and take you outside somewhere.”

 

Gaping, she pressed a hand to her heart. “I can _hardly_ help it if the food here is routinely atrocious.”

 

He gathered both their trays and said, primly, “You're just not trying hard enough to imagine it as good. Imagination is the most powerful magic known to mankind--”

 

“Oh, _stuff_ it up your--”

 

He cut her off with a sharp bark of laughter as he headed for the bins, and she pushed to her feet to follow him out.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

The week slogged on by. Coming home to her uninhabited flat continued to be as strange and unsatisfying as it had been the week prior, to her honest surprise. She would have thought she'd have at _least_ gotten used to it, even if she didn't enjoy it – instead, every time she stepped out of the Floo and was greeted with a dark and empty flat, she felt the weight of his absence settle on her shoulders all over again.

 

At least Hercules was staying with Draco at his hotel; one less annoyance to deal with. Draco had sent him off just before his portkey activated.

 

Nonetheless, her life continued to be social, even though everyone knew Draco wasn't in town. Narcissa locked them in for dinner at the manor on Saturday night, right after her lessons with Lucius. Pansy and Daphne had invited her out throughout the week (though she'd always declined, despite knowing it would help the time pass faster), and her usual group of friends were as insistent as ever on hanging out as often as possible.

 

On top of that, she was now getting invitations to _other_ pureblooded parties, something she hadn't anticipated and wasn't really sure how to react to. She hardly recognized half the names on the letters, to be honest, although she presumed they'd all been at Narcissa's fundraiser back in December.

 

Since she didn't know what to do with such invitations, she just set them aside for Draco to deal with. This was his world, not hers.

 

Although maybe it _was_ hers. It hadn't escaped her attention that every invitation was addressed to her, or to her first and then Draco second. Perhaps word was spreading that she was working closely with Lucius and people simply wanted to get in her good graces now for a handsome pay-off later.

 

After all, it wasn't exactly a secret that Draco didn't care about any of the political nonsense.

 

Still, the thought of dealing with it without him was overwhelming.

 

So she didn't.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“We could be shagging _right now_ ,” Draco groused. It was Friday, and he'd arrived home to have her dump precisely fourteen letters into his arms – all invitations to parties of one sort of another, and all from the pureblooded folk that had so dearly hated her just ten years ago – and told him that he had to help her sort through what to do about them.

 

He lifted a letter and cringed at the perfume that clung to it. “Instead, this. This is the _worst_ homecoming present.”

 

She brought him a cup of tea and sat beside him. “I'm sorry,” she sighed. “It's just that they're all days old and I'm worried about not replying in a timely manner. I feel like I've already been rude, letting them sit _this_ long. I promise I'll make it up to you.”

 

He grumbled under his breath but began sorting them into piles. “The Malfoys don't mix with the Rosiers or the Parkinsons,” he explained, setting them into a pile together. “Just decline. If the Rosiers want to try you again, they'll have to make nice with my father, first, they've got quite a bit to apologize for. You don't want to go there without my father's blessing unless you want to risk losing his mentorship.”

 

Hermione squinted at the invitation. It looked just like the others. “Why, what'd they do?”

 

“Long story. And the Parkinsons are no friends of ours, either. My mother's friends with Pansy's mum, but my father notoriously hates both of them. Besides, Pansy'll excommunicate you from her life if you go to her parents'.”

 

“I wasn't really planning on going to theirs, anyway,” she admitted. She didn't know the entire story around Pansy, but she knew enough that she'd already assumed she'd be declining that one. “How do I decline? What do I say?”

 

Draco shrugged. “You have a prior commitment, you're very sorry, and you will certainly attend the next one.”

 

“But I won't attend the next one,” she murmured, blinking.

 

He waved a hand. “It's just something you say. They'll understand. You won't receive another invitation unless something drastically changes. They're trying their luck while you're still new, hoping they can wheedle in before my father and you are too close. This is just you telling them they're too late.”

 

Her nose wrinkled. “It's very off-putting, that people seem to think he's controlling me, or something.”

 

“They don't,” he corrected, with a faint smile. “Well, some of them might. But it's just the nature of the game, Hermione. Nobody assumes he's _in control_ of you. But they know you're astute enough that you're unlikely to risk that partnership for the sake of a party. There's nothing they can really offer you that my father can't, and there's a lot my father can offer you that they cannot. It's also probably better if you're viewed as being _aware_ of the relationships between the pureblooded families. They'll be less likely to try to take advantage.”

 

Leaning back in her chair, she sighed and pressed her fingers into her temples. “This is giving me a headache. Why does everything you lot do have to be so _complicated_?”

 

“I guess it's just more interesting that way.”

 

She shook her head, completely at a loss, but listened intently as he helped her sort through the rest. In the end, eight of the fourteen invitations went into the discard pile for various reasons – either they were in feud with the Malfoys (or a feud with one of his parents' friends), or they were obviously in a desperate way and were hoping to cling to her coattails as she rose up in society.

 

Of the six she was going to respond in the affirmative for, four of them were dear friends of the Malfoy family and she simply couldn't refuse without causing a rift of some sort. The other two weren't necessarily affiliated positively or negatively, but were politically powerful and would make good potential allies.

 

By the end of it, she _did_ have a headache. Listening to Draco prattle through the stories of why certain families were affiliated or not was one of the most mind-wringingly _boring_ activities of all time.

 

Some of the feuds were _generations old_ , which was just patently ridiculous.

 

Of course, saying so didn't do much. Draco would just shrug and explain that was just the way it was, and no amount of her insisting that it didn't make sense was going to change that.

 

“What if I just refuse to play along?” she wondered, as she was finishing up her letters declining.

 

“Then they'll play around you,” he drawled, finishing his tea. “And you'll be ostracized. Trust me, every now and then someone decides to have the grand idea of rising above all the pettiness, and that's how it _always_ ends. You don't become friends with everyone. You simply stop existing.”

 

Rolling her eyes, she finished up her own tea and passed him the mug as he stood to make more. “This is positively medieval.”

 

“You can't tell me you're surprised. Isn't that your number one complaint about us? How backwards and old-fashioned we are?” he teased, smirking faintly at the frustrated noise she made in response. “You can dream about a utopia all you want, Hermione. In the end, it always becomes this.”

 

Muttering something rather uncomplimentary under her breath, she shook the faint cramp out of her hand and began working on her acceptance letters.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

She didn't get any replies from those that she'd declined, not that she expected any. When she told Lucius, he seemed a little smug over it – inasmuch as his face really displayed _anything_. She was getting good at reading him, but not good enough to definitively accuse him of anything.

 

“I drafted the subsidy proposal,” she announced, and held up her hands defensively at the tired look that crossed his face. “I _know_ you said I shouldn't try it until the tea is up and running, and I understand and I'm not trying to force the issue. I swear. It was just in my head and I wanted to get down a quick draft of it while I was thinking about it.”

 

He didn't look convinced, but turned his hand palm-up and flicked his fingers impatiently.

 

But when she passed it to him, he simply set it aside. “I'll look at it later,” he promised, when she began to protest. “You said you were not trying to force the issue, so obviously there is no rush.”

 

“But I want to hear your notes!”

 

“And you will.” He took a leisurely sip of his tea. He hadn't even _glanced_ at the parchment, and Hermione wrinkled her nose at him as he leaned back in his chair comfortably. “When I read it.”

 

Heaving a faint sigh, Hermione reached for her own tea. “Alright, alright. What are we doing, today?”

 

“We're going to practice your dialogue.”

 

Groaning, she sank into her chair dramatically. She _hated_ dialogue practice. It started off with him giving her a situation to navigate, and almost always ended terribly after she utterly failed to navigate it with the finesse he required.

 

His cane smacked her knee, and she yelped and straightened up. “Posture,” he reminded her, with an elegant lift of his eyebrow. “Is endlessly important. It provides a sense of--”

 

“Confidence, elegance, and intelligence,” Hermione intoned, in time with him. “Yes, yes. Alright.”

 

As she straightened her back, he said, “You need funding for the investigative branch of the DMLE to help bring at-large werewolves into custody without killing them. You are speaking to the Chief Warlock to plead your case.”

 

Taking a deep breath, she thought back desperately to the last few Saturdays and everything he'd taught her about phrasing things delicately. They'd spent an entire Saturday going over the personalities and psychological pressure points of all the big-wigs in the Ministry, and the Chief Warlock was a man who considered himself rather refined; as such, he tended to react stiffly and negatively when approached in what he thought a gauche fashion.

 

Training her eyes on Lucius, she mentally overlaid his visage with that of the Chief Warlock. It helped a bit, with the nerves.

 

“Your eminence,” she began, remembering last-minute to cross her ankles and clasp her hands in her lap. The Chief Warlock was also an old-fashioned man who didn't take kindly to women that he saw as 'uppity.' “I hope you can spare me some of your time for an issue I've witnessed. I know you're very busy.”

 

“Indeed, I am,” Lucius said, and he'd managed to flatten and broaden his voice a bit, sounding very similar to the self-important idiot that actually headed the Wizengamot. “I suppose I can gift you with a few minutes, Mrs. Malfoy. Make it count.”

 

She almost licked her lips, and they parted before she remembered and slammed her jaw shut. One of the 'tells' that Lucius was slowly training out of her.

 

After an awkward pause, she smiled, to look more demure and approachable. “Thank you,” she said, gratefully. “I promise I won't be long. I've noticed that when we're tracking unruly werewolves, we suffer quite a bit of casualty on our side.” She saw the flicker of surprise in Lucius' eyes, no doubt because she hadn't started her argument by worrying about the werewolves. Then his eyes narrowed a bit and he inclined his chin just barely in approval as she continued. “I think I've come up with a way to sedate the werewolves from a distance. This would diminish injuries on our behalf, and of course then we could bring the werewolf in alive and fine them accordingly for their indecent behavior.”

 

“Interesting, Mrs. Malfoy. Although I find it difficult to believe that no one has come up with anything similar, yet.”

 

She grit her teeth for only a second, reminding herself that she would have to _deal_ with this throughout the rest of her career, most likely. In the beginning, she'd been indignant about it, but Lucius was right, of course: everyone would always see her as a muggle-born woman, and she couldn't very well browbeat everyone into seeing otherwise.

 

But she could work it to her favor until she was powerful enough to not have to.

 

“Oh, I'm sure. Well, that's why I was hoping to meet with you, your eminence,” she said, turning the gritted teeth into a different expression – one a little fretful and uncertain. “You're experienced in this sort of thing and I know you've spent some time in the DMLE. I thought you'd be able to help me come up with something. I do hate to see my own partners come back mauled beyond reason by those animals.”

 

Lucius nodded, allowing himself to look smug and self-assured. “Of course, Mrs. Malfoy. It's rare to find a young one such as yourself that's actually willing to seek assistance from those of us with real experience. I'd hate to turn you away, given that. Please, tell me your idea.”

 

Exhaling a little shakily, Hermione quickly outlined a (completely made-up) sedative that could be shot with some assistance from a wand and would render a werewolf unconscious for a nice, safe three hours.

 

Frowning a bit, Lucius considered her. “And how much would this cost to manufacture?”

 

“Well, with your connections,” Hermione said, gesturing at him. “I believe the Ministry could get close to at-cost. I don't suppose you know any brewers looking to help a good cause?” One of his best friends was a potions master, which of course she already knew, thanks to Lucius. Half the Slytherins she'd ever met went into potions, for some ungodly reason.

 

Lucius nodded thoughtfully. “I might be able to assist you, Mrs. Malfoy. Perhaps I can present the idea to the appropriate people...”

 

Of course, that was the rub of it. People like the Chief Warlock liked to take credit for things. And it set her teeth on edge, but not enough to consider letting it get in the way of progress. Hermione nodded eagerly. “Oh, that'd be brilliant, if you could. You'd probably present it far better than I ever could, you know a lot about such things, already.”

 

The corners of his lips twitched. “Laying it on slightly thick,” he murmured, in his usual Lucius voice.

 

Hermione spread her hands helplessly. “Well, the man's an oaf. He'd probably fall for it,” she defended. “I don't think there's such a thing as 'laying it on too thick' for him. Everyone he surrounds himself with is just leaking schmooze out their ears.”

 

“Perhaps,” Lucius conceded. “But try it again, more subtle.”

 

She cleared her throat a bit, re-thinking her sentence as Lucius put his Chief Warlock expression back on. Then, inhaling deeply, she opened her mouth to speak.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“Oh, I'm exhausted,” Hermione breathed as she dragged her feet into the playroom. Draco was hovering above a cauldron, making some yellow concoction she was too tired to identify. “Your father _exhausts_ me.”

 

“Yes, I seem to recall him being singularly tiresome,” he agreed, absently.

 

She dropped onto the couch and glanced at the clock. Dinner was in a little over two hours. Maybe she could grab a nap. “What are you making?”

 

“Strength potion,” he murmured. “The family healer asked me to make some when I came back to town. Apparently he had quite the falling out with his usual brewer, so he's making do with me until he can find another potions master.”

 

Stretching her arms behind her head, she yawned. When it was over, she asked, “Couldn't you do it full-time, if you wanted? Or does he really need a master?”

 

“He wants a master,” Draco assured her. “And believe me when I say that I do not want to spend my free time making basic potions to maintain his stock. Eighty percent of what he has in his stores is Pepperup, I'd wager.”

 

Snorting a bit, she let her eyes close. “Wake me up when it's dinner.”

 

“Alright, love.”

 


	79. It's Not Quidditch

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Seventy Nine: It's Not Quidditch**

 

…

 

Penning a letter to Luna was always a gamble. Half the time, the letters never found her, and the owls came back looking ashamed and in serious need of some treats. When they did find her, there was a good chance she'd forget to write back entirely, and when she _did_ write back, any questions addressed to her in the original letter were almost always unanswered.

 

So when Hermione sent the invitation off for Pansy's dinner party, she did so with low expectations, planning to just be pleasantly surprised if Luna responded or showed up.

 

And she _was_ , when Luna _did_ show up, not fifteen minutes before they were getting ready to leave. When Draco opened the front door, he stood stunned as he took her in: covered in mud and dead, wet leaves with a bright smile on her face.

 

“Oh, good, I'm not late,” she said, dreamily.

 

She took a step inside, her runners squelching. Draco recoiled a bit from her, the smell finally breaking the spell as he demanded, “What in _Merlin's name_ happened to you?! Do _not_ hug me. Hermione!”

 

“What-- oh, my God.” Gaping, Hermione stepped fully into the hallway. “Luna, what happened?”

 

“Well, I was on my way here, and I saw a lackerwit in one of the drains on the street, and you know how rare it is to find a real lackerwit nest, Hermione.” Of course. Naturally. “So I slipped down to follow it. I'm sad to say that I lost sight of it after about a mile.”

 

Draco had hastily put some distance between them as she spoke, and was now scowling at her from the kitchen. “That's _sewage_? You have _sewage_ on you?”

 

Luna looked down at herself. “I think it's mostly rainwater.”

 

“My _arse_ ,” Draco snapped, beating a quick retreat to the bedroom, the door to which he slammed and _locked_ , as if Luna's dirtiness was somehow contagious.

 

Rolling her eyes a bit, Hermione waved Luna towards the bathroom. “Let's get you washed up. We'd better be quick. Pansy will kill us all if we're late.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

In the end, they were late by ten minutes. She was pretty sure they could have slipped into the small crowd unnoticed if Ron hadn't seen them and shouted, “Hey, Hermione brought Luna!” for everyone to hear.

 

Pansy slipped through the room towards them, lips pursed. “I wasn't sure if you were coming,” she said, eyes narrowing.

 

Hermione grimaced. “Sorry we're late.”

 

“Blame her,” Draco muttered, tilting his head towards Luna. He flinched when Hermione pinched his arm and shared a glare with her. “What? _I_ wasn't covered in sewage this afternoon.”

 

“Shut it,” she advised, flatly.

 

“Sewage?” Pansy asked, eyebrows rising as she took a half-step back from Luna.

 

Luna's smile didn't waver. “Just a little,” she agreed, amicably. “I was on a lackerwit hunt, you understand.”

 

“Of course. I was just about to ask, _hunting lackerwits, Lovegood?_ ” Pansy's sarcasm was sharp enough to cut everyone in a ten-foot radius, but Luna just laughed softly and bridged the space between them to press a kiss to her cheek.

 

“Thank you for inviting me,” she said, when she'd pulled back. “I think the Nargles have gotten a little better. I'm glad.”

 

Pansy sighed when she realized her sarcasm wasn't going to get the intended results and gestured towards the table of hors d'ouevres. “Please enjoy the food,” she muttered, watching Luna go with a slight shake of her head. “If I don't read in the news one day that someone's been hitting her with the Confundus every few hours to keep her in that state, I'm going to be shocked.”

 

“Be nice,” Hermione ordered. She elbowed Draco. “ _Both_ of you.”

 

“I haven't said a word!” Draco protested.

 

Pansy snorted a bit. “Dinner proper is at seven. Until then, enjoy the party and for the love of Solomon, do. Not. Let me catch her straying into my suite in pursuit of Neggles or whatever.”

 

“Nargles,” Draco corrected, and then looked horrified at himself. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, Merlin.”

 

Hermione shot him a faint smirk. “I'll keep an eye on her,” she promised Pansy. “And she didn't bring any of her equipment, as previously agreed, so your flat should be perfectly safe.”

 

“See that it is.” With that parting remark, Pansy turned to greet one of her fashion friends.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“I do hope you're breathing,” Draco said, arching an eyebrow at Ron. “Or maybe I don't. Interesting conundrum.”

 

Ron was, predictably, trying to see how many small bites of food he could stuff into his face at any one time. With his mouth still full, he managed, “Sod off, Malfoy.”

 

“At _least_ swallow before responding,” Ginny groaned, shooting him a disgusted look. “You're worse than _Charlie_.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Ron closed his lips around his food (with no small amount of effort) as he finished chewing.

 

“Posh place. Nice music. But it needs dancing,” Ginny decided, looking around the living room. “I mean, it's not much of a party without it, hey?” She did a little two-step, bouncing her eyebrows at Draco.

 

“Your stomach looks like it's going to burst open,” he drawled, earning himself a stinging smack that made him hiss in pain. “Fuck's sake--”

 

Harry put his arm around Ginny's shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I think she's a vision.”

 

Hermione's eyes narrowed at her husband. “If you think you're going to get away with comments like that when _I'm_ pregnant, Draco--”

 

“I wouldn't dream of being so crude while _you're_ pregnant,” Draco assured her, smoothly.

 

“You can't think it, either.”

 

“Of course not.”

 

Her eyes became suspicious slits. His expression continued to look bland as he raised his eyebrows at her, challenging her to accuse him of lying.

 

“It's in your best interests, anyway, mate. They're randy as hell when they're pregnant,” Ron stage-whispered, making Susan's eyes widen in mortification as she lightly smacked his arm. Ron shied away from it, swallowing a laugh. “What! It's true!”

 

“You better stop,” Susan warned, blushing. “Or I'll take my randiness somewhere else.”

 

Ron laughed, scooping her into his arms. “Noo, nooo, shhh, shhhhh,” he soothed, rocking her back and forth as she protested. “You're madly in love with me. You're fine, you're finnnne.”

 

“Ron, I swear--!” But she was laughing, too.

 

“It is true,” Harry agreed, sagely.

 

Ron turned to cuff him upside the head. “Oi! Don't talk about my sister like that.”

 

“Of the two of us, _she's_ the one that's actually most likely to talk about it!” Harry defended, indignant. “I just beat her to the punch this _once_.”

 

“And look what you got for it,” Ron pointed out, reasonably. “What'd you learn, then?”

 

Harry's eyes narrowed, and before Hermione could break it up, they were both trying to put each other into a headlock. “Oh, God, that's embarrassing,” she sighed, glancing around the room to gauge how much attention they were getting. A lot. “Is it too late to move away and pretend we don't know them?”

 

“It's about a decade too late for _you_ to pretend you don't know them,” Draco reminded her. He slid a half-step away. “Me, on the other hand...”

 

Her hand became a vise around his. “We sink together, you git.”

 

“That's not fair!”

 

“We're married!” she gasped. “Were you really going to just _leave_ me and melt back into the party?”

 

He paused for a few seconds too long. “No.”

 

Her mouth fell open. “You--!”

 

“No, I said!” His eyes widened when he realized she was reaching for her wand, and the next few seconds were spent quietly wrestling over control of it. “Now who's embarrassing?” he hissed, as she tried to jerk it away from his white-knuckled grip.

 

“Oh, everyone will forget _all about_ about this when you have bat-bogeys flying out of your face,” Hermione promised him, sweetly.

 

He tried to twist the wand out of her grip. “You would not _dare_.” He managed to drag her out of the main room. They were both fighting smiles when he flattened her against the hallway wall, pinning her wand – and her hand with it – above her head. “You are making such a scene.”

 

Her head was tilted up, and she kept glancing at his lips. “You started it.”

 

“Mm. I disagree.” He bent his head a little.

 

“No snogging in my flat,” Pansy ordered, crisply, making them both startle away from each other. “And if that little display outside was your idea of flirting, then I honestly feel as though I should kennel the both of you.”

 

Draco tilted his head and shrugged a bit, unrepentant but unwilling to argue. “Are the two idiots still fighting?”

 

“The ginger won. Then his sister rescued Potter by twisting his ear. Have you lot _never_ been to a dinner party?” she demanded, eyes narrowing in on Hermione. Then it went back to Draco. “And you, cavorting with them? If your parents had seen _that_ \--”

 

“They didn't and they wouldn't,” Draco said, smoothly. “I don't really feel a need to keep my person immaculate with _this_ crowd. Fashionistas, aren't they?”

 

She pointed at him. “I don't think I care for the disdain in your voice, there.”

 

Straightening his waistcoat, he cast her a half-lidded, smug look, making her roll her eyes and turn back towards the party. “We'll be good,” he promised her back, and she waved a bit in acknowledgment before disappearing back into the living room.

 

They waited a cursory thirty seconds – in case Pansy was testing them – before they kissed, slow and lingering.

 

“You're putting on those knickers tonight.”

 

“You are obsessed with those stupid things,” Hermione huffed, letting him tow her back out into the party.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

She wasn't sure if Pansy had seated Luna nearby to keep an eye on her, but Hermione was relieved to see them talking, all the same – and it didn't even look hostile on Pansy's part. Although Hermione recognized the signs of incredulity (smothered between twin layers of amusement and irritation), Pansy looked more resigned to Luna's eccentricities than previously. Obviously she'd learned that Luna had an impenetrable barrier that neutralized all attempts at sarcasm.

 

Hermione herself was put next to Ron, which she took as an unspoken order to keep him seemly (an assumption he did not agree with _at all_ ).

 

With a Slytherin she barely recognized from a few years up on her other side, she was honestly a little astonished at how well the evening went. Ron and Harry were being cordial and even friendly, and the Slytherin friends Pansy had invited were acting similarly.

 

It was crazy to think that only ten years ago, they would have all simply died of embarrassment at the very _idea_ of sharing a table.

 

Then again, catching Draco's eyes across the table and catching the barest half-wink from him before he returned his attention to Daphne's ramblings, it wasn't as if any of them had good reasons to cling to old grudges, anymore. The Marriage Law had surely seen an end to that nonsense.

 

And hell, maybe there was something good to the law, even if she was damned sure the side effect was perfectly unintended.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“Say what you want about Hercules,” Draco muttered, when they re-entered her flat to Crookshanks' interminable yowling. “At least he's _quiet_.”

 

“You already ate your dinner,” Hermione reminded her familiar, tersely, and was rewarded with a higher pitch of yowling as the cat desperately tried to convince her otherwise. It was a familiar ploy; he tried it every time he got his dinner a little earlier than normal, having learned that getting dinner early meant that Hermione had a good chance of coming back in a drunken state and was thus a bit more suggestible to second-guessing her own memory.

 

When he weaved around her legs, she simply stepped over him. “No, Crooks.”

 

He fell silent with a nasal sigh and meandered into the living room to take back his favorite spot on the armchair.

 

“For all you deny him extra meals, he sure is fat,” Draco pointed out, lips pursing a bit as he watched Crookshanks fail his first jump up onto the armchair.

 

Hermione gasped as she took off her coat. “He is not! He's big-boned and very muscular. Pick him up, you'll see how heavy he is. That's mostly muscle. The rest is just fur.” When Draco shook his head, she scowled. “Pick him up!”

 

“You couldn't _pay_ me to touch that ginger mess.”

 

She crossed her arms. “Since you won't see for yourself, you have to concede that I'm right,” she said, looking self-satisfied. “My opinion trumps your ignorance.”

 

“Oh, another made-up rule that benefits _you_ , how convenient and totally unexpected!” With a huff, Draco marched over to the chair, locking eyes with the cat. When Crookshanks yawned and closed his eyes again, Draco poked him in the side. “That's pure blubber.”

 

“It is _not_. You're just saying that to win the argument.”

 

He threw his hands up, gaping at her. “So if I don't touch him, I'm uninformed and thus my opinion is invalid. If I _do_ touch him, I'm just a _liar_ and my opinion is invalid. This household is Slytherist.”

 

“Slytherist!” She blew a raspberry at him. “Like anyone's going to believe that a literal millionaire snot-baby is an oppressed faction of society. Get _real_ , Malfoy.”

 

“ _You_ get real, Malfoy.”

 

She started to laugh. “I can tell you're drunk because your comebacks are awful.”

 

He ran his hand through his hair, squinting at her. “I only-- yeah, I probably am,” he conceded, with a faint sigh. He shot her a keen, sly look. “If I take a shower, will you put on that lipstick I like?”

 

“Only if I can shower first.”

 

“The _things_ I do for you,” he said, with a dramatic wave, and she laughed and sauntered into the bathroom.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a crossword from the newspaper, when his hands suddenly slammed down on either side of her – his arms caging her in. “What's that?” he murmured against her ear.

 

To her credit, she didn't even flinch, having heard him coming from across the flat. “Crossword puzzle,” she murmured, nibbling absently on a biscuit.

 

“Which is...?”

 

“It's a word puzzle. Each of the boxes has a letter in it and they give you clues to figure out which word fits in the boxes,” she explained, pointing at some of the boxes she'd already filled in. “Like, for this, the clue was _First home of the Olympics_ , and the answer is Greece.”

 

He sat down beside her, looking at the list of clues. “What are you on, now?”

 

“Twelve across.” She pointed with her pencil. “ _A game played with more than one ball._ ”

 

“Quidditch.”

 

She shot him a _look_. “This is a Muggle newspaper,” she reminded him, rolling her eyes a bit.

 

He pointed at the boxes. “But look, it fits.”

 

“It's not Quidditch.”

 

“It could be!”

 

“It isn't! Look, there's an L in it. Quidditch doesn't have an L. See, the answer for seven down is _alley_ , which means that the answer for twelve across has an L in it,” she explained, trying not to become impatient.

 

Draco considered the crossword for a long moment. “Maybe you got seven down wrong.”

 

“ _It's not Quidditch_.”

 

He looked skeptical. “What Muggle games can be played with more than one ball, then? They all have one ball. I've seen them. Football has one ball. Rugby has one ball. And...” He trailed off, blinking.

 

Her eyebrows rose. “So you're basing all your knowledge of Muggle sports on the two you happen to have seen.”

 

“... Yes.”

 

“Oh, my God. Go make a potion or something,” she ordered, laughing. “You're of no use to me during a Muggle crossword. If the _Prophet_ ever decides to start running one, I'll definitely let you help.”

 

He stood. On his way towards the living room, she heard him mutter, “I bet it's Quidditch.”

 

It was _billiards_ , as it turned out. He managed to look disdainfully unimpressed when she told him.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

He was studying from home that day, which she tried to tell him meant that he should at least _get up_ so he could study. He did get out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky, and crossed his arms testily as he waited for her to finish getting ready and finally leave.

 

She wouldn't have been surprised in the least if she'd returned to her flat ten minutes later and found him back in bed.

 

Draco was a night owl as much as Hermione was an early bird. For an embarrassing second on the walk to her cubicle, she found herself daydreaming about their lives as an old married couple; her out in the garden like her Mum as soon as the sun rose while he snored in bed, meeting in the middle of the day for a brunch to accommodate the both of them, spending the afternoon together. Then, as she went to bed, he'd get to work on his own things, brewing potions and slipping into bed at three in the morning.

 

It was only a _second_ , but the daydream stuck with her the whole day, flustering her at the most inopportune moments.

 


	80. Snowballs

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Eighty: Snowballs**

…

Lucius slid a piece of parchment across the table. "Your application for the posting," he said, reaching for his wine and taking a delicate sip.

Hermione stared at it. "You filled it out for me?"

"Make a copy of it. I expect you to keep all future applications in a similar vein," he ordered, casually.

"What—" She squinted at the parchment and then pursed her lips at him over the top of it. "I didn't do at least half of these. I'm not  _lying_  on my application. They keep these things on file, Lucius. What if someone looks it up years down the road and realizes it's false?"

He flicked his fingers dismissively. "You were tangentially involved. Besides which, I would argue that neither Potter nor Weasley could have done those things without your prior actions."

She glared at him. "I'm sure they would have managed."

"Possibly."

"I'm not turning this in! I'll write my own application," she huffed, offended. "I have done plenty of things with my life. I don't need to  _pad_  it with Harry and Ron's accomplishments." She tried to hand it back. When he refused to take it, she balanced it on his wineglass and was slightly mollified to see him roll his eyes.

Picking it up, he intoned, "It is perfectly normal to exaggerate on applications. No one expects them to be completely honest."

"Then what's the point of turning one in at all?" Hermione demanded, hotly. "Why don't I just turn in a poster of the Cannons and scrawl 'hire me' at the top?"

He sighed. "Just take it."

"No!"

They wrestled quietly over it for a second, until he brought his cane up and charmed the parchment to her fingers. She squawked in outrage and tried to shake it off, causing a racket that drew eyes from the surrounding tables. "Stop making a scene," Lucius hissed, irritated at having been forced to use  _magic_  at the table.

" _You're_  making a scene," she snapped back, trying to use her elbow to tear the parchment off her hand. The end result was that it stuck to her elbow, and she closed her eyes and groaned.

By the time their entrees arrived, the parchment was stuck on her shoulder and they were both grimly pretending as though they hadn't noticed. The waiter – ever a professional – followed their cue and didn't even glance at it as he refilled their glasses.

They began to eat in terse silence. "I'm still not using it," she informed him.

He looked perfectly composed as he chewed, almost  _bored_  with her little rebellion. "I have already turned it in on your behalf."

"You did not."

"I will, as soon as lunch is concluded."

She pointed her fork at him. "That's identify theft. And forgery." He glared pointedly at the utensil until she scowled and put it back towards her plate. "I'll just tell them you filled it out for me and then I won't even get the job. How about that?"

"You are tiresome," he muttered. "If you insist on filling it out yourself, then I must insist upon seeing it before you turn it in."

"I'm not going to lie."

"You will paint yourself in the best possible light."

"Without lying," she repeated, stubbornly. She flaked off a piece of flounder and popped it into her mouth, eyeing him primly. "Besides, I'm supposed to be your protégé, not your puppet. You're supposed to teach me how to do things, not do them for me."

An elegant shrug rolled through his shoulders. "I was teaching by demonstration."

"My arse," she whispered, and then grimaced when he shot her another pointed look. "Sorry. But you're not, anyway. And has it occurred to you that perhaps I don't learn best, that way?"

"Has it occurred to  _you_  that I do not possess infinite amounts of time with which to field your unending and increasingly inane questions?" He still sounded and looked bored, but she could sense the thread of irritation deep beneath, and her face scrunched with guilt. "If I never hear the word  _why_  from you ever again, I believe I could finally die in peace."

She scraped the tines of her fork on the plate, enjoying his wince. "How am I supposed to be an effective protégé if I don't  _understand_  why you do things?"

"You could always learn the old-fashioned way. By observation. That's how I learned."

Huffing, Hermione shifted her carrots about on her plate. "That is such a waste of time when you already have all the answers. Why don't you just tell me what you know?"

"You're impatient and entitled."

She gaped at him. "You're calling  _me_  entitled?"

"Lower your voice," he reminded her, with a glare. "Do you truly see no value in observing the world for yourself and learning to understand things through the lens of your own experiences?"

Crossing her arms, she countered, "Do you truly see no value in building off the experiences of others? My God, if you had your way, would every generation be responsible for re-inventing the wheel?"

Lucius sighed. "How am I expected to believe that you could learn anything from my experiences when you can't even make it through lunch with the poise and elegance I have spent months trying to instill within you?" he pointed out. "You clearly see little value in the things I have already taught. What is my motivation for wasting my time any further?"

"Oh, that's—you are so—ugh," she finished, disgusted with the conversation. She didn't know how he managed to always  _twist things around_  like that.

His eyebrows rose expectantly, and she stared mutinously at him for a few seconds before sighing and straightening back up. Once her posture became acceptable again, he continued to eat as though the argument had simply never happened. "The posting became available today. You will need to turn your application in promptly so that it does not seem as though you expect to be chosen."

"I thought you said I was a shoe-in."

"You are, but it would not be seemly to act like it. Stop rolling your eyes and finish your food. There are starving people elsewhere in this world, as you have so graciously pointed out several times during the short course of our acquaintance."

She bit back a snappy response – as if he cared about starving people! – and sipped at her wine. "Have you had a chance to look at my subsidy proposal?" She didn't know why she asked. Every time she brought it up, he always said no – pointing out that it was useless to waste his time on it when the tea wasn't even in production. She saw it in his face even as he opened his mouth, and interrupted him: "Never mind, don't answer."

He regarded her quietly for a moment. "Your eagerness can work for you or against you, Hermione. Things must work out in their natural order. Completing step three in advance of step two is pointless."

Her mind churned through that for a moment. "If I made it through an entire lunch or dinner without slouching or doing anything unmannerly at all, could you maybe  _reward_  me for it?" she wheedled, thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed at her, unimpressed, and she insisted, "I learn better with a reward system!"

"Did Draco suggest you say that?"

"How dare you," she spluttered, reddening a bit with guilt. Unfortunately for her marriage, her bitter complaints about Lucius had spread to every facet of their every interaction lately, and Draco had exasperatedly offered to give her some pointers on dealing with the Malfoy patriarch  _if she swore_  to never talk about his father again while they were both naked together.

Sighing through his nose, Lucius considered it. "If it will finally allow me to endure a lunch without becoming embarrassed by your company—"

"Git."

"Then I suppose I can offer you that," he finished, as if he hadn't heard her. His eyes flicked from his plate to her, one blonde eyebrow lifting elegantly. "I consider crude language to be unmannerly, in case that was unclear."

She stuck her tongue out at him, feeling childish. "Well, I already ruined this lunch, so I might as well get it all out while I can."

"That is quite—"

"You bastard."

She beamed in the face of his glare, feeling a sense of victory when he just sighed through his nose again and finished the last bite of his tenderloin in lieu of answering her. It was difficult to get the last word with Lucius Malfoy, but on the rare occasion it happened, it felt downright  _amazing_.

As they were both walking out, his cane managed to find its way in front of her ankle, sending her sprawling all over the hostess stand. She looked up in time to see the faintest little smirk touch the corners of his lips, and glared ferociously at him as he stepped through the doorway. "Do be mindful of your step, Hermione."

" _Such_  an arsehole," she grit out, grabbing her coat and bundling up as she hurried after him.

As she chased after his imposing form, it began to snow.

o0o0o0o0o0o

"Well, well, well," Draco drawled, as she Flooed in that evening. He was lounging on the couch, his wand held loosely between his fingertips. It twirled lightly in his hand, and her eyes panned slowly to the snowball that the spell was holding aloft just before him. "If it isn't my darling wife, looking so dry and cozy in her coat."

Hastily, Hermione tried to undo her many layers to dig for her own wand. "Oh. My. God. If you  _dare_  throw that at me, I swear to  _God_ , Draco, I will turn you inside out," she swore, ripping her scarf off over her head and tearing her coat open.

"I wouldn't  _dream_  of throwing this at you," he assured her. "That sounds like an awful lot of effort. Why waste the arm muscles?"

With a flick of his wand, the snowball zoomed across the room and plastered itself across her shrieking face. " _DRACO_!" she squealed, pawing off the rapidly-melting ice crystals with her free hand as her wand hand finally closed around wood. "You are  _beyond dead_."

Her eyes opened as she yanked her wand out, and she froze when she saw about ten more snowballs floating serenely behind him.

His smile slowly widened into a smirk. "I'm sorry, what was that last part you said?"

She slowly lowered her wand a little. "I hope you know that if you sincerely intend on throwing all of those at me," she said, managing to sound quite calm. "There will be a reckoning the likes of which you could have never imagined."

Draco pursed his lips in thought. "I think I'll take the risk."

Her screams filled the apartment seconds later as every snowball in his arsenal blasted into her. Her neighbors might have worried that she'd been murdered if the screams weren't immediately followed by profanity-punctuated threats and demands that Draco 'stop hiding in the bathroom like an arse' and face his (well-deserved) punishment.

o0o0o0o0o0o

The snow persisted throughout the week, and if there was ever a damn good reason for the Floo network to have been invented, this was it. Hermione was nothing short of determined to not step a single foot outside unless positively necessary, meaning that Lucius canceled their second lunch rather than endure the 'degrading experience' of having to utilize the Ministry cafeteria.

Figures.

o0o0o0o0o0o

The snow was still around that Saturday, although it had grown old and brown and tired, having had no new snowfall since Thursday. Draco and Ginny decided to take the boys (and Teddy) to the park anyway to try and find a patch of it that hadn't been absolutely demolished. For the first time since the snow started, Hermione found herself wishing wistfully that she'd gone with them.

Instead, she was in the Manor, getting grilled by Lucius about and upcoming Ministry function. He'd approved of her application, but apparently had decided that she had a lot of ground to make up in terms of forming worthwhile business connections.

Like everything else Lucius Malfoy was interested in, it was insufferably tedious.

However, she couldn't argue that he obviously had a better understanding of this world than she did, so she had entered the Manor that afternoon determined not to become a whining mess by the end of it. Like it or not, one didn't become Minister for Magic in a vacuum, and the sooner she admitted to herself that it was as much Who You Know as it was What You've Done, the better. According to him, anyway.

Narcissa rescued her for tea after a torturous three hours, and Hermione all but bolted out of Lucius' study to trot after her mother-in-law. Because, you know,  _sod all that_.

"Thank you," she murmured, when they had turned the corner and were finally out of earshot.

The blonde shot her a faint wink that reminded Hermione very much of Draco; mischievous and surprisingly playful. "My son left me explicit instructions that I was not to let you spend more than three hours in my husband's care. Before you came along, Draco had to put up with this, and believe it or not, he was even  _less_  interested in it than you are."

"That seems impossible, because I've been bored out of my mind," Hermione groaned. "I keep thinking he's working up to the 'good stuff,' but then every time I come it's just more of the same How To Have A Basic Conversation With Idiots thing."

"Well, being that you're probably inclined to call them an idiot to their face, I'm sure Lucius' lessons are doing you  _some_  good," Narcissa pointed out, with a soft huff of laughter.

Chuckling, Hermione shrugged. "Yeah, probably. But it's still quite tepid material."

"No arguments from me."

Narcissa headed back up to the top floor – almost any time Hermione visited, she found a reason to drag her up there, obviously in hopes that Hermione would become so enamored of the place as to finally move in – where tea was waiting for them in the solarium. The wintry world outside cast a blue pall over the room, but the grounds were as lovely in the starkness of winter as they were in the abundance of summer.

Settling down, Hermione took the rare opportunity to fully lounge against the back of the couch. Either due to an eagerness to please or simply out of pity for what Hermione endured in her husband's study, Narcissa never tried to force any sort of standard of posture.

After a few nibbles of a sandwich, Hermione ventured, curiously: "Do you always go to France for Christmas?"

Narcissa frowned. "We do, but mostly because the Blacks are no longer around in enough numbers to have a Christmas of our own," she said, softly. "Once upon a time, Lucius and I would have traded years with his family for years with mine, but… there didn't seem to be much point, with 'Dromeda banished and Bella in Azkaban."

"Right," Hermione murmured, fighting the urge to apologize (for some reason; it just seemed sad, even if Bellatrix was absolutely insane and likely always had been). "Draco didn't think it'd be a good idea for me to go."

Gingerly, Narcissa replaced her teacup on its saucer. "The environment within Pureblood circles in that particular country can be somewhat oppressive."

"That's the nicest way you could have possibly put that," Hermione marveled.

She smiled, shrugging a shoulder. "It's something I've grown used to," she admitted. "Although ever since you and Draco married, I found myself slightly more aware of it. I'd hoped you may have come with us, next year, but… Draco was right. It's probably not the best idea."

"Do you have to go?" Straightening a bit, Hermione chewed her lower lip. "I mean, obviously our relationship is new, so it's not as though anything has to change just yet, but I'm not sure I'd be okay with you guys taking my children to a place like that without me. Does Lucius insist on going?"

Narcissa's head tilted a bit in thought. "No," she said, slowly. "I suppose we largely do it out of habit. Perhaps as you and Draco start your family, a new tradition would be in order. I've never thrown a Christmas party in the Manor. I wouldn't mind it." She brightened; she'd probably love having the Manor filled with chattering guests on Christmas. "You could invite your lovely parents and your friends – obviously we have quite a bit of room available, so it wouldn't be a burden at all."

Smiling, Hermione said, "Yeah. Maybe. I think it'd be nice for my friends to get used to coming here outside of big galas, anyway. I mean, if I'm eventually expected to move in, and all." Her mother-in-law's face lit up like a Christmas tree, and Hermione grimaced and threw a hand up to stall the excitement: "Although, obviously, such a big decision is a bit of a ways away."

"Of course," Narcissa agreed, readily, her smile widening happily. "I wouldn't ask you to rush something like that, although of course you know you're always more than welcome."

"I know," she assured her, smiling wryly. "You remind me every time I come."

o0o0o0o0o0o

When Draco Flooed in to join them for dinner, he winced in apology. "Mother, I've—I'm sorry for the short notice," he finally said, as the Floo lit up  _again_  and Ginny entered with both James and Albus. "Potter's in the field and he owled to say he'll be late in, so I figured—"

Recovering from the surprise with admirable speed, Narcissa insisted, "No, not at all. The dining table is massive and I've often lamented the empty chairs for small dinners like this." Her eyes lingered on Albus, asleep in his stroller, and she got the same exact wistful look on her face that Draco occasionally wore when he saw children. Stepping towards Ginny, she leaned in to smile at James, who was eyeballing her sleepily. "Hello."

"'Lo," he returned, yawning.

Ginny laughed. "Sorry. Just pulled him out of a nap. Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can."

Albus roused a bit at the noise and blinked at the massive ballroom blearily. Smile widening, Narcissa took a half-step towards the stroller before glancing at Ginny. "Is it alright-?"

"Oh, yeah, go for it," the redhead said, waving dismissively at her youngest. "This is the best time to hold him, really. He'll be too tired to want to use his legs, which he's recently discovered and is  _all about_. And youuuu—" She plopped James in Draco's arms. "Hold him while Hermione shows me to the nearest loo."

"Ugh— _ugh_ ," Draco complained, when James immediately wiped his face all over his shoulder. "James, for Merlin's sake, how many times did I offer you a tissue today and you just ignored it?"

"Ionno," James mumbled, as Hermione led Ginny into the hallway.

"Loo's down the hallway, this way. This place has more bathrooms than I think the entire Ministry has, but damned if you don't have to make a trek of five hundred feet to get to one," Hermione muttered, glancing down at Ginny's dress. It was new, and she wondered if it was one of Pansy's. "Find any good patches of snow?"

Ginny scoffed. "Absolutely not. I don't think I saw even a square inch of white in that entire park. But James had fun playing in the sludge."

Her nose wrinkled. "Why would you let him play in sludge?"

"Hey! It kept him quiet for twenty minutes, and you have no idea how rare and blessed that is," Ginny defended, shoving her finger in Hermione's face accusingly. "Once you poop one of these little monsters out,  _then_  you can talk."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione opened the door to the loo. "As usual, your elegance of speech leaves me breathless,  _Girl Ron_."

Ginny blew her a raspberry as she bumped the door closed.

 

\---------------

\---------------

 

Hey guys! Those of you that follow my tumblr already know why I've taken such a long leave of absence; things got pretty rough for a little while there and hopefully the rest of 2017 will be a little kinder to me than that awful middle section. Rocky return to writing, so sorry if the chapter reads a little strangely. <3


	81. A Paragon of Compromise

**The Alkahest**

**Chapter Eighty-One: A Paragon of Compromise**

…

"No, no, that isn't what I'm saying—" Ginny was arguing, holding the spoon of apple sauce just out of Albus' reach. The toddler strained forward in his high chair to try and wrap his lips around it.

Draco shook his head. "That's absolutely what you're saying. There is literally no other way to interpret it—"

" _What_?" Ginny demanded, barely even noticing as Narcissa gently pulled the spoon of apple sauce free and carefully fed it to Albus. She threw her hands up the second they were empty. "All I said was that if the Falcons would go one-on-one with the Harpies, it would be a match worth seeing—"

" _You said_ , and I quote,  _the Harpies would absolutely wreck the Falcons_ ," Draco mimicked, his voice affecting a mocking falsetto.

" _With_  me on the team," Ginny finished, primly.

He set his fork down with a little more force than necessary. " _You didn't say that_!"

"It was implied!"

"Enough," Lucius snapped, as Draco opened his mouth to bitterly argue that point. His cool grey eyes swept over the contents of the entire table – Narcissa cooing as she fed Albus, Ginny and Draco locked in mortal combat over Quidditch, and Hermione trying to stop James from putting the mashed potatoes into his own hair. They froze at the edict, turning wide eyes to him.

Spreading his fingers, he placed them gently on the tabletop, his voice so carefully controlled that Hermione was sure that somewhere in the manor, glass was shattering. "This dinner table is a place of propriety, intellect, and manners. If you cannot –  _James, you will cease immediately_."

The child wilted under Lucius' draconian glare, going limp enough to allow Hermione to clean his hands with her own napkin.

Eyes narrowing a bit, Lucius swept his gaze around again. "If you cannot conduct yourselves as befitting this table, you may excuse yourselves from it. The next person to raise their voice in this dining room is getting banned from our Floo permanently."

Hermione shared chastened looks with her friends, patting James' knee when she saw his lip wobbling. The only people that didn't seem particularly affected were Narcissa (too used to it) and Albus (too young to care). Albus gurgled delightedly around a mouthful of apple sauce, kicking his feet with glee, and Narcissa all but melted as she tried to smooth the cowlick in his hair.

Ginny took another bite, chewing it thoughtfully before muttering out of the side of her mouth, "It was implied, though."

"Father!" Draco protested, gesturing at her as if to say,  _How can you expect me to endure this in silence?_

"Eat. Your. Food," Lucius growled. "I can now see why I have had such a difficult time training Hermione in how to eat without making an ungodly racket."

Hermione's mouth dropped indignantly. "Hey! I wasn't even talking."

"If I need to permanently eject the three of you to the children's table, please do let me know." With that, Lucius resumed eating with unruffled aplomb. "Perhaps we can discuss Draco's studies. Surely there is nothing within that topic that requires shouting."

"Sounds like a challenge," Ginny murmured, smothering a wicked smile.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Despite Ginny's threat otherwise, the rest of the dinner went just fine. Even James ate quietly, much to Hermione's eternal shock. After finishing, he tugged Hermione's sleeve and said, "Go loo?"

Lucius shook his head. "No, James," he said, calmly. "You will say, 'May I be excused?' when you need to use the bathroom." After a beat – perhaps realizing that James was a little young for this – he repeated, slower: "May I be excused?"

"May… I scused?" James tried, uncertainly.

"Thank you," the Malfoy patriarch congratulated him, with a cordial nod, and Hermione and James rose from the table so that she could usher the little boy into the hallway.

Once he was done and they were heading back, James looked up at Hermione with a frown. "Scary."

She snorted. "A little," she agreed, ruffling his hair fondly. Lucius  _was_  a bit intimidating, especially for a child, but she also couldn't say that James didn't  _need_  a little of that structure in his life. Harry and Ginny were great parents, but the Weasley antics clearly ran strong. "But now it's time for pudding. Are you exciting for pudding?"

Lighting up, James beamed up at her. "Pudding!" he repeated, bouncing sideways down the hallway like a little lemur.

Chuckling, she ran to catch up so that she could slow him down to a walk before they entered.

o0o0o0o0o0o

"Must you place your feet upon the table?" Lucius complained, waiting for Ginny to remove them so he could walk past her. "You will get the surface dirty." He squeezed past her knees to head for his favorite armchair as she rolled her eyes.

"It's a coffee table. It's for feet," she retorted, watching idly as Narcissa read a story to the boys in the far corner.

Sitting down, Lucius leveled an impressive glare that she ruthlessly ignored. "The  _name_  suggests that it is for coffee. The floor is for your feet. Merlin knows where your shoes have been."

"Want me to take them off?" she offered.

"No," Hermione and Draco chimed in, firmly. Ginny smirked as Draco glared at her.

Lucius sighed theatrically before sipping his Firewhiskey. When he'd swallowed, he lamented, to no one in particular, "At one time, this manor was host to only the finest people within the magical community."

"Don't insult me. Stress makes the baby come out crooked," Ginny sniffed.

"A rather unimpressive lie."

She grinned, not denying it, and glanced back at Narcissa. "She loves kids, doesn't she? I bet she hates that her little Drakey-wakey grew up," she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. Draco made a bit of a face at her, but shot a glance at his father and quickly schooled his expression a bit. "Bet she can't wait for grandkids. She'll be over at your flat every day."

"Nonsense. Draco and Hermione will not continue to live in that place after they have begun a family," Lucius said, flatly. "It is small and unprotected. They will live here."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, is that so? I didn't realize you were the Dalai Llama of our living arrangements," she said, a bit sharply. Lucius just stared at her. "If we need to, we can move to a bigger flat. There does exist two bedroom flats, you know."

"Hermione," Draco murmured, putting a hand on her knee. "Leave it."

And she might have, if Lucius hadn't spoken up. "That is a preposterous half-solution. I cited the size but also the lack of safety. There is no place within this country better warded than the Manor. Had I not recognized your and Draco's obvious desire for independence and allowed you to live in that squalid flat until your pregnancy, you would be here, already." He spoke in a low, cultured drawl. Not arguing; just stating what he saw as absolute fact.

She stared at him. "Are you kidding me?"

"Of course not," he scoffed.

"Father," Draco snapped, flatly. "This evening has so far been pleasant. We should endeavor to keep it that way."

Spreading his hand a little, Lucius pointed out, "You cannot tell me that you would find it acceptable for your child to live in such a manner. We are not a widely-beloved family by any stretch of the imagination, and it is obvious to everyone that matters that Hermione is aiming high within the Ministry. You must acknowledge that it is likely you will be targeted."

"We can take care of ourselves. Might I remind you that I managed to elude  _you_  for most of seventh year?" Hermione grit out, trying to keep her voice low so as not to disturb Narcissa and the boys.

Lucius snorted softly. "Until your friend got you captured in arguably the stupidest manner possible."

Ginny's eyes darted back and forth, a little wide as she (wisely) kept her mouth shut. She had no idea that her innocuous comment would have opened up such a can of worms.

Sighing through his nose, Draco cast his father a furious look before telling his wife, "We can discuss this later."

"Oh, no, I think we should discuss it now." Hermione's voice was falsely cheery as she smiled insincerely at her husband, and Draco's eyes closed in resignation as he fought another sigh. "After all, your father was so kind to bring it up, and so  _generous_  to allow me to continue to live in my own flat."

"I will not allow my grandchild to live in a barely-guarded flat."

Hermione whirled back to face him, eyes flashing with anger. "That's not your decision."

"It is the best decision," he argued, calmly.

Pressing his lips together in irritation, Draco leaned forward. "Father, may I speak to you outside for just a moment?" He pushed the words through his teeth, eyes narrowing as Lucius inclined his head and stood. He managed a tight smile against Hermione's obvious fury, lowering his voice a little. "I will be right back. Please don't take the opportunity to start issuing edicts about how you'll never live here. I will only be a minute. Seriously."

She crossed her arms, mutinous. Swallowing, he looked into her eyes and said, quietly: "I love you. Right?"

"Right," she muttered.

He nodded, relieved. "Be  _right_  back." He stood, quickly following his father out into the hallway. He took the care to close the door behind him, and he must have either cast a silencing charm or taken Lucius across the manor, because she certainly didn't hear any of the argument she was sure was happening.

"Woah," Ginny said, huffing a bit. "My God."

Hermione exhaled roughly, slumping against the couch. "He is such a git," she whispered. "Sometimes he's okay, but then sometimes he's just—I could just strangle him. Right now. Wouldn't feel a bit of guilt."

The redhead looked around the stately drawing room, pursing her lips a bit. "Would it be so bad, to live here?"

"That's not the point," Hermione gasped, newly offended.

Ginny waved a hand at her to wordlessly tell her to calm down. "Right, right. You don't like being told what to do, I know. Nobody does," she added, in a  _duh_  voice. "But still, it's literally a mansion. Although you  _would_  have to live with Sir Arsehole Longhair."

She didn't  _want_  to laugh, because this was clearly not very funny, but Hermione was only able to maintain a straight face for a few seconds before breaking into chuckles. "Nicely done."

" _Thank_  you," Ginny said, smugly.

Sobering a bit, Hermione murmured, "It's not like I'm against it  _on principle_ , or anything. They're re-doing that one room, and the Malfoys have honestly been shockingly quite lovely at least half the time. And I know how to hold my own the  _other_  half. It's just so annoying for him to make sweeping edicts like that and expect everyone to jump up and follow them. Does he think he's the King of England, or something?"

"If he  _did_  think that, would you be very shocked?" Ginny asked, dryly. When Hermione shook her head, they both giggled a bit.

"I'm glad you came tonight," she said, suddenly, shooting Ginny a smile. "Dinners here can be so stuffy sometimes. It's nice to have a  _little_  chaos. And obviously Narcissa is adoring the little monsters that tag around with you everywhere." Albus was fast asleep in her mother-in-law's lap as the statuesque blonde finished reading the story to James, who was sleepily sucking his thumb at her side.

Ginny watched them, her face softening. "I can see where Draco gets it. He is  _ridiculously_  baby hungry, you know. Just dying for you to have like, a thousand babies."

"A  _thousand_. Good God. There won't be anything left of me after all that."

Snickering, Ginny elbowed her a bit. "You know, just because Mr. Malfoy says that you can't be a career woman and a pregnant woman at the same time doesn't mean it's true," she pointed out, eyebrows raising. "And wasn't it you that said that as a woman gets older, the risk for complications increases exponentially?"

"Over the age of  _thirty_ ," Hermione clarified. "I'm in my mid-twenties."

" _I'm_  just saying, Larise Snapkurt only took a month off for her pregnancy and then she was right back to work. Knowing you, you'd probably just take the work with you and continue drafting proposals right there in St. Mungo's between all the contractions." Her eyebrows bounced a bit as Hermione rolled her eyes, but the conversation was cut short as both Malfoy men re-entered, looking grim but mostly calm.

Lucius crossed to his armchair and sat down, picking up his glass to sip at it delicately. He took his time, and after a few seconds, Draco glared at him pointedly.

Clearing his throat, Lucius murmured, "If I became overbearing, I… apologize." The last word came out with so much sheer difficulty that Hermione actually imagined it having to be pulled over some sort of prideful blockage in his throat. "It was not my intention to imply that you should be forced to act according to my wishes. … Logical though they may be."

"Father."

Lucius didn't take it back, though, just took another measured sip from his glass, stubborn and proud. For a second, Hermione was reminded rather sharply of herself, and wondered if other people ever grew as frustrated with her as she did with her father-in-law.

Probably.

"Thank you, Lucius," she said, evenly.

Silence reigned for a second before Ginny said, "God, all that food is pushing the baby right into my bladder. I might wee on this couch."

"If you  _dare_ —" Lucius began, a vein popping out of his forehead as Ginny began to cackle.

As they argued, Hermione caught Draco's eye and shot him a small smile. He returned it, issuing a faint – but smug – wink.

o0o0o0o0o0o

When they got home, Draco helped her out of her coat automatically, and she let him hang it up before curiosity took her over. "So what did you guys talk about, out in the hall?"

He shrugged. "This and that."

Fighting a smile, she crossed her arms. "You told him that he was running the risk of me declaring that I'd never move into the Manor, ever. Didn't you?"

"Well, you  _are_  stunningly belligerent."

She laughed and lobbed one of the couch cushions at him, which he caught before it got him in the face. "How dare you. I am possibly the most accommodating person to have ever existed—"

"Oh, Merlin. If you finish that sentence, I might  _actually_  break all of my ribs from laughing too hard," he warned, scoffing loudly.

"I am a  _paragon_  of compromise and—"

"Stoooop," he demanded, starting to laugh. He stepped forward abruptly to shove the cushion into her face, his other arm snaking around her back to pin her against him as she struggled to speak through the damn thing. He heard her muffled insistence that she was  _very understanding, thank you_ , and dropped the cushion to pick her up.

She cut herself off with a squeal, kicking a bit. "Draco!"

"I was  _going_  to go get some tea, but I think I'm just going to occupy your mouth with something else," he decided, marching towards the bedroom. "Since clearly it's run away from you."

Batting her eyelashes prettily, she pouted. "Are you trying to say that I'm  _not_  a beacon of accommodation? That's very hurtful. And so untrue."

"Shut up, you batty witch," he growled, dropping her onto the bed and quickly pinned her there. He cut her laugh short as his mouth slammed into hers, making her curl her legs up around his hips in obvious satisfaction.

Because whatever else had happened that evening… she was  _a little_  impressed that he'd stood up to his father, like that.

She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him do it.

And it was sort of  _really_  sexy.


	82. Magic Metabolism

**The Alkahest**

 

**Chapter Eighty-Two: Magic Metabolism**

…

“Hey.” Harry knocked on the wall of her cubicle. “Ready?”

 

She shot him an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I actually have to run home for lunch,” she explained, hurriedly. “I _will_ eat, I promise. I was working on the amendment to that troll treaty last night and I left the papers on the kitchen table. I’m going to pop back and grab them.”

 

He groaned. “You’re going to make me eat alone? Like some loser?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Hermione stood to grab her bag. “I’m sure you’ll manage to find a friend. You _are_ Wizarding Jesus, aren’t you? I’m sure everyone’s been dying to nab you for a conversation.”

 

“Yeah, like everyone was bothering Jesus all the time with smalltalk,” Harry scoffed, following her down the row of cubicles towards the Floo. “What are you going to eat at home? Make me something. You owe me!” he added, at her incredulous stare.

 

“Are you a toddler? Can you not manage a single day without bothering me?”

 

“No,” Harry said, with utter sincerity. “I cannot. Every day I don’t make you hang out with me, something goes horribly wrong. Like, for instance, yesterday, when you had that working lunch with the Assistant Head of the DMLE? I got mustard on my chin and _nobody_ told me. I just walked around like that! All day!”

 

She made a pouty face at him. “How awful for you. I’m sure everyone’s talking about it, right now.”

 

“Also, I was going to use this time to ask you how the lunch went. Are you joining up with us?” he asked keenly, jostling her side with his elbow. “Will we finally have an Investigator that has two brain cells to rub together? This is very exciting for us, you know.”

 

“You’re very funny.”

 

“’We’re saved,’ said everyone, when they heard—”

 

She jostled him into the door of the lift a little bit, eyes narrowing as she advised, “Shut it, Potter.” She hit the button for the Floo lobby, but couldn’t help the slight smirk that touched her mouth. “And as it happens, he wants to get me transferred within the month. Unlike _some_ sarcastic prats I know, he was actually _genuinely excited_ to work with me. A refreshing change from the two idiots I usually help out.”

 

His jaw dropped, and he put a hand to his heart. “You’re talking about me?”

 

“Who can say?” she answered, primly, stepping out of the lift and heading for the Floo with the shortest line. “Would you categorize yourself as a know-nothing lay-about who didn’t write any of his own homework assignments?”

 

“I challenge you—” He prodded her shoulder with his finger. “To name one essay assigned to us in school that is of any use to our current lives whatsoever.”

 

She grabbed the powder box and held it out. “The funny part is, you need me to name an essay because you can’t remember a single one. Will you do the honors?” She opened up the lid for him, and he took a small handful of the green powder inside.

 

For a second, he just looked at it thoughtfully. “You think if I call out, ‘Bushy-Haired Know-It-All,’ it’ll know exactly where we’re going?”

 

“I’m pushing you in, in about two seconds, and letting it take you wherever it goes.”

 

Grinning, Harry threw the powder in, calling out her flat and ushering her in ahead of him.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

When they spilled out, kicking their feet against the side of the fireplace to dislodge the worst of the ash, Harry glanced around. The room was quite empty, and the flat was utterly silent. “I thought Draco worked from home.”

 

“He does,” she said, with a frown. “Draco?”

 

As she headed down the hallway to their bedroom, Harry moved into the kitchen. She heard the faint noise of her fridge being opened and sighed. He was going to take the leftover curry she’d been planning on eating. She just _knew_ it.

 

“Maybe he went out to eat,” Harry called to her as she peeked into her room and then her bathroom. “It is lunch time.”

 

Her frown deepened as she returned to the kitchen. “Right, but Draco doesn’t eat lunch. He’s almost never even awake before noon, and he just waits to eat dinner with me, usually,” she explained, watching Harry with narrowed eyes as he reheated _her curry_ and grabbed a fork.

 

“Bloke only eats once a day? That seems unhealthy.”

 

“Twice. He’ll eat after I go to bed, too. Then he stays up until God knows what time.” She opened her fridge and resigned herself to the sad little bit of deli meat in there. Fetching it out, she grabbed a few slices of bread from the freezer and toasted them.

 

He was eating her curry at an alarming pace, hissing through his teeth a bit as the spice slowly penetrated. “Well, he’s probably eating with his parents, or Pansy, or something,” he said, dismissively. “Those your papers?”

 

“Yes. Put the kettle on, will you?” Feeling Crookshanks rub up against her legs, she dropped a bit of ham on the floor and watched him gobble it up greedily.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

When she got home that evening, Draco was at his potions bench, like usual. She could see his lips moving as he counted the stirs, and pulled off her scarf and coat as she waited for him to finish up.

 

“Thirty-six… Hello,” he said, at a normal volume. “How was work?”

 

“Fine,” she said, dismissively. “Homework?”

 

He hummed an affirmative, glancing at the parchment briefly and squinting into the cauldron. “Yeah. The recipe has no name and its wrong, so I have to figure out what it was meant to be and how to fix it. It’s some—I don’t even know. I don’t recognize it at all.” When she came over to look at the parchment, he flipped the paper over to show her its blank back, squinting at her. “What did I say about helping?”

 

Huffing, she rolled her eyes, but turned away to head into the kitchen. “Did you go anywhere, today?”

 

“No.”

 

The way it rolled off his tongue so easily made an uneasy feeling settle into her gut. “Really? Nowhere? You just… stayed in the flat?” she asked, as casually as she could.

 

He entered the kitchen, eyebrows raising. “Merlin, is _that_ your nonchalant voice? It’s terrible.”

 

“I came home for lunch. You weren’t here,” she said, turning to lean against the counter. Her arms crossed loosely in front of her stomach as she regarded him. “Where did you go?”

 

Draco shrugged. “Nowhere special. I took a walk.”

 

Her expression was openly skeptical, much as she tried to hide it. “For an hour?”

 

“Is that weird?”

 

He leaned against the entry to the kitchen, obviously amused at her line of questioning. Wincing a bit, Hermione chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. “Sorry. I guess I’m just being weird. I didn’t realize you had some sort of _life_ when I wasn’t around,” she explained, softly. “I always just thought you sat at home.”

 

His smile widened. “Waiting for you. Like a dog.”

 

She made a _tsk_ noise. “No! God. Nevermind. I’m being daft.” The teapot whistled, and she grabbed his favorite tea out of the basket. “Go check your potion. I’ll bring you a cup.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

“I could have one of the boys follow him around,” Harry offered.

 

Hermione glared at him over her lunch tray. “No,” she ordered, flatly. Although, if she were being honest with herself, the urge to go home for lunch again and see if he was there had been strong. In the end, she’d talked herself out of it.

 

If she couldn’t trust Draco, then this whole marriage was an even bigger sham than usual. And he hadn’t done anything to earn her mistrust.

 

Except lie about how they got paired. And lie about Blaise. And lie about his mum.

 

God damn it.

 

The food in the Ministry cafeteria was always awful, but the paranoia was turning it to ash in her mouth. She swallowed with some difficulty, taking a swig of pumpkin juice and trying desperately not to think about it. “He said he was taking a walk.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. Something was nagging at her, though.

 

She realized it as soon as Harry said it. “But his coat was on the hook.”

 

“Well, he has other coats. He probably just took another one out of the hall closet,” she muttered, but somehow, she truly didn’t believe it. Something was definitely afoot.

 

Harry considered her. “What if I just followed him?”

 

“No following! God, I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this conversation,” Hermione groaned, rubbing her forehead. “What exactly could he possibly be doing that’s so dastardly, anyway? I’m sure it’s nothing. And it wasn’t even that cold out yesterday.”

 

“Right,” he drawled. “It was a lovely, sunny… negative two degrees Celsius? Definitely shorts weather. I hope he didn’t get too much snow in his flip-flops.”

 

She made a face at him, shoving the tray away as she stood.

 

“You’re going home, aren’t you?” Harry demanded.

 

“No.”

 

He jumped to his feet. “My arse you aren’t. I’m coming, too!” Despite her protests, he followed her doggedly to the Floo, and then through it. As they were once again greeted with an empty flat, he reminded her, “I know a bloke who could follow a ninja.” At her glare, he threw his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

The first thing Ron said to her when she entered the shop was, “So I heard Draco’s having an affair.”

 

Glaring at him tiredly, Hermione muttered, “Must you two share absolutely every little detail of your lives like a couple of school girls?” She dropped her purse on the counter sourly and leaned heavily against it, sighing miserably.

 

He grinned, tidying up the receipts from the day. “I’m sure he’s not, for what it’s worth. That poor git is absolutely smitten with you.”

 

“Why does that make him a ‘poor git’?” she demanded, archly.

 

“I bet he’s going on a broom ride,” Ron guessed, ignoring her question entirely. “Merlin knows you wouldn’t ever indulge him that. He probably has to sneak it in when you’re not around so that you don’t make those sad puppy faces and yell at him to be careful.”

 

Straightening, she frowned at him. “I don’t do that.”

 

Nodding sagely, he grabbed his coat and put his scarf on. “Sure you do. Don’t want him to mess up his pretty little ferret face. I get it. _GEORGE, LUNCH!_ ” he bellowed up the stairs. “I’m leaving this register unattended if you don’t get down here!”

 

“If anything’s missing, it’s coming out of your pay!” George yelled back.

 

Ron made a face up at the top bannister. “Come on, let’s go before he finds something tedious for me to do.” He steered her shoulder to push her towards the door, scooping up her bag as he stepped around the counter. As he opened the shop door and ushered her out, he yelled back into the empty shop, “Sure, kids! Just take whatever you want! It’s on the house!”

 

“Oi!” George barked, suddenly appearing at the banister. He scowled when he realized the shop was empty and shot Ron a two-fingered salute.

 

With a mocking little finger-wave, Ron let the door close and followed Hermione down the street.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

Susan was already waiting at the sandwich place when they arrived, although when she saw Hermione, she winced in sympathy. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she assured her, giving her a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek.

 

Hermione threw her hands up and glared at Ron. “For God’s sake, anyone else you want to tell? Want me to call Prophet? Arrange for a mass form letter to everyone at Hogwarts?”

 

“Oh, calm down. She’s my wife. I have to tell her everything I know,” Ron defended.

 

Growling a bit, Hermione shouldered ahead of them both. “I’m ordering first, then. Feel free to take the opportunity to gossip about my marriage as you wait.”

 

“A little sore, is she?” Susan whispered.

 

“She was _born_ sore,” Ron responded, smiling perkily when Hermione turned to scowl at him.

 

Susan smiled at her in reassurance. “He’s probably just going for a broom ride,” she suggested, and Hermione’s jaw dropped a little as she spread her hands in pure bewilderment.

 

“A broom ride? What is with you two? Why in _God’s name_ would he have to _sneak off_ to ride a _broom_?”

 

Gasping in delight, Susan gaped at Ron. “You, too?”

 

“This is why I love you so much,” Ron declared, spreading his arms wide to envelop Susan in a tight hug. He pressed a loud kiss to the top of her head. “Mmmwah. Soulmate. My perfect match. The things I wouldn’t do to this woman.”

 

Unimpressed, Hermione drawled, “Don’t you mean _for_ this woman?”

 

He blinked. “Why, what’d I say?”

 

“Oh, my God,” she muttered, turning back to the lady at the counter to order the fixing for her sandwich. She could hear them being all lovey-dovey behind her and had to physically stop herself from rolling her eyes at the poor girl putting olives on her sandwich. “Thank you. He’s paying for me.” She stepped away from the register as Ron squawked in protest, lifting her chin as she moved towards the nearest vacant table.

 

As he dropped across from her a minute later, he picked up a crisp and tossed it at her. “What a brat.”

 

Giggling, Susan settled carefully beside them, scooting her chair away a little to make room for her expanding stomach. Amazingly, her sandwich was even more massive than Ron’s. Catching Hermione’s look, she said, primly, “I’m eating for the baby, also, you know.”

 

“Are you having triplets?” Hermione snarked, and then snapped her mouth shut.

 

Ron was already pointing at her, finger wagging. “Oh, there it is. I told you. I told you she’d start sounding just like him within the year. That was pure ferret. He’s possessing her soul.”

 

“Awww,” Susan crooned, before taking a messy bite of her sandwich. Toppings flew out the sides and landed all over her tray, and she deftly plucked them up and popped them in her mouth as she chewed. Wiping the mustard from her chin with a napkin, she swallowed and said, “I think it’s cute.”

 

He made a gagging noise. “I’ve already let one ferret into my life. I refuse a second. You better re-bookworm yourself, Hermione, or I’m not going to make you godmother.”

 

Brightening a bit, Hermione straightened. “You were going to make me godmother? Not Ginny?”

 

“I was _thinking_ about it.”

 

“Yes,” Susan translated, beaming at her. “He was.”

 

The hard lump in her stomach melted like butter at the news. “Oh, Ron,” Hermione whined, feeling tears sting at her eyes a bit. “That’s so sweet. I would love to, you know, I just always assumed that—”

 

“You think I want my foul-mouthed, _mean_ little sister guiding _my_ kid? No, no way,” Ron scoffed. “This kid is going to be smart and he’s going to topple empires. The only thing Gin’s ever toppled are my hopes and dreams.”

 

Laughing, Hermione pointed out, “She can topple a stack of pancakes pretty neatly, these days.”

 

“You know what’s messed up, though? That’s not even pregnancy appetite. She’s just a human pit,” Ron said, eyes widening seriously. “Harry can’t so much as have a packet of biscuits in the house for an hour before it’s gone. As soon as she lands that desk job, she’s going to turn into an elephant. Mark my words.”

 

Susan was shaking her head. “No. Nope. She’s one of those special people, you know, the ones that can eat forever and never gain an ounce. Metabolism,” she said, as the word came to her. “She’s got one of those magic metabolisms.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know what that is,” Ron muttered, dismissively. “She’ll fatten right up, trust me. I can’t name a single female relative of mine that didn’t plump up as soon as they hit thirty.”

 

“Plump, sure, but your mum’s not _fat_ ,” Hermione pointed out.

 

He swallowed quickly to rebut. “But Mum _barely_ eats. I think I’ve seen her eat _twice_ outside of dinner in my entire life! Unless she hides in the pantry and just stuffs her face when we’re not looking. Given the sheer _magnitude_ of the amount of food that Ginny can eat? I mean, it’s monstrous. I wouldn’t go head to head with her in an eating contest.” Hermione made disbelieving noises, and Ron leaned forward, eyes widening. “I’m serious! She acts all proper at a party, but believe me, if you bet her a Galleon that she couldn’t out-eat me, she’d be calling for pudding by the time my stomach ruptured.”

 

“Magic metabolism,” Susan whispered to Hermione.

 

“Stop saying those nonsense words,” Ron groaned, scooping up his sandwich again as the girls giggled across from him.


	83. Surprising Developments

**The Alkahest**

 

**Chapter Eighty-Three: Surprising Developments**

…

It was probably nothing. It probably _was_ just a walk. It wasn’t like Draco needed a coat to walk around outside in the dead of winter. He was a wizard. There were charms.

 

Right.

 

In the end, she decided not to ask again. She didn’t want to seem crazy (and honestly, she was beginning to _feel_ a little crazy). Nothing had changed in their daily lives; he didn’t seem different or distant or otherwise distracted. The sex was still fantastic. The conversations were still engrossing.

 

There was nothing to worry about.

 

Obviously.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

As Hermione turned towards Flourish & Bott’s, Ginny grabbed her elbow and hauled her back. “No. _No_. You’re not getting him a _book_ for Valentine’s day. Was that _seriously_ your first choice?”

 

“What?” Hermione demanded, hotly. “I think he’d like it.”

 

Ginny fished the _Prophet_ out of Albus’ stroller and rolled it up, whapping Hermione on the nose with it. She squeaked and reared back, eyes crossing as she looked down at the paper, which Ginny was now brandishing threateningly at her. “No,” she ordered, drawing it out like Hermione was a naughty puppy who’d peed on the floor. “That’s a _bad_ Hermione. No.”

 

Lips thinning, Hermione shoved the paper out of her face, her nose wrinkling sourly. “Well, what would you suggest, then?”

 

Ginny smiled, eyebrows bouncing a bit. “A massage… some chocolates – I mean, his sweet tooth is his one defining feature, aside from that neon hair, right? Or some sex toys. Oh! Yes! Sex toys! Let’s get you one of those vibrating rings—”

 

“My God,” Hermione intoned, loudly. “ _Please_ shut up.”

 

“Oh, wait, actually, some lingerie. Remember that red lacy thing I got you for your honeymoon?” Grinning wickedly, Ginny clapped her hands. “Let’s get you something in green! Oh, he’ll love that. Slytherin lingerie.” She shimmied her shoulders suggestively.

 

Hermione was already shaking her head. “No. No. I’m not spending all afternoon in that dusty old shop trying on bits of lace with you, again.”

 

“Oh, come on, I’ve seen it all before.”

 

“I’m _aware_ , as I recall, you kept barging into the changing room demanding to ‘see the goods’ to determine how much support my breasts would need,” she grit out, eyes narrowing a bit. Ginny didn’t even have the decency to look half-ashamed, just shrugged carelessly as if to say, _What else was I supposed to do?_

 

“Well, on the upside, you didn’t need much. They were very perky. You have good pre-pregnancy breasts. Bouncy.” Ginny cupped her hands in front of her chest and mimed it.

 

Swallowing a bit of a gag, Hermione turned away from her. “Oh, God, stop. Let’s just go to the sweet shop.”

 

Ginny wheeled Albus along after her, merrily taunting her in a sing-song voice. “Enjoy them now. As soon as you _splort_ a baby out—”

 

“You don’t need to make up new verbs, Ginny, okay, there’s plenty of disgusting ones at your disposal,” Hermione groaned, miserably. “For God’s sake—”

 

“I’m just saying, they get all saggy and sad,” she continued, blithely. “I mean, we’re lucky, inasmuch as that men don’t seem to notice or care as long as they get to squeeze them to their hearts content, but it can be a bit depressing to realize that your old lacy things don’t quite do the job, anymore. You have to call in all these reinforcements, and it’s this whole to-do just to get your cleavage looking sprightly again—”

 

Smoothing her hands over her face, Hermione muttered, “This conversation has been going on—forever. And ever. I just wish it would stop. I just don’t know how to make it stop. How do I make you stop?”

 

“Not to _mention_ the mess a birth makes of your _woo-hoo_ area,” Ginny added, with a forlorn sigh.

 

“Ugh! God. No! Please,” Hermione snapped, pleading. “God. For Christ’s sake.”

 

Smirking in satisfaction, Ginny gestured her into the chocolate shop. “Remember that time he practically bought out Honeydukes? He had Crabbe and Goyle carry all of his loot back to his dorms in big Santa sacks on their backs.”

 

Hermione snorted, a bit fondly. “Yeah. I remember wondering if his parents truly approved of him spending all of their money on that nonsense. I guess, in retrospect, they had so much they probably didn’t even notice the tab he’d built up. Just a drop in the bucket. You know, he is _so_ lucky they seem to have good teeth in the family, because he would have been up to his eyeballs in cavities by graduation,” she added, enviously. “Lucky sod.”

 

Squinting at the display case, Ginny snagged one of the free samples on the counter. “I bet they get their teeth straightened and hardened by the family healer, or something. They’re too straight. They’re fashion magazine straight.”

 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hermione admitted. Vanity did seem to be a core Malfoy trait. Smiling at the shopkeeper, she asked, “What would you suggest for Valentine’s? Do you have, uh, a box for it already?”

 

The woman smiled. “Of course,” she said, in accented English. French, from the sound of it. “I have a three-tier heart box. I’ll be right back.”

 

As she headed into the back, Hermione caught Ginny reaching for a fourth free sample and slapped her hand away. “You could at least _pretend_ that you were taught some decorum growing up,” she murmured, lips pursing. “You’d better buy something, all that free chocolate you’re taking.”

 

“It’s a sample! It’s supposed to be free,” Ginny defended, sniffing.

 

The French woman returned with a positively massive box – heart shaped, and dusted in pink and gold with a filigreed rose emblazoned across it.

 

“Perfect,” Hermione sighed, with a wry smile. “Just, any assortment is fine.” Knowing Draco, he’d finish it by the end of the week – at the _latest_. She’d seen Draco pour plain honey directly into his mouth one time after dinner. It was a marvel he wasn’t nauseous literally all the time.

 

As the woman began to fill it up, Hermione stared at Ginny unblinkingly until the redhead sighed theatrically and grabbed a little box of fudge. She mimicked Hermione’s judgmental expression as she placed it on the counter. “There. Stop it.”

 

They both paid, and Hermione picked up the box with a faint blink. It was heavier than she’d expected.

 

Pricier, too.

 

“I can’t believe these four little pieces of fudge were ten sickles,” Ginny seethed as they left the shop. “They’d better be charmed to send me right into orgasm at _that_ price.”

 

Hermione shook her head, equally amazed. “Well, they are ‘fine Parisian chocolates.’ I guess you get what you pay for. Give me a piece.”

 

“You can _buy_ a piece. Five sickles.”

 

Her jaw dropped. “You’re price-gouging _me_ , your closest friend?” she gasped, indignantly. “Besides, _this_ stupid Valentine’s gift would put me right in the poor house if Draco wasn’t paying half the rent. As if I have five sickles for you.”

 

“Business is business,” Ginny informed her, primly. “I make the supply, I demand the price.”

 

“You are the worst. Gross and greedy and mean,” Hermione whined. “Give me a half of one, then.”

 

“Three sickles.”

 

“Hnngh,” Hermione growled, clutching her dumb massive heart box to her chest. After several seconds of walking, she whipped her hand out and snatched the fudge up, making Ginny squeal in outrage as she sprinted down the street, laughing.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

She shrunk the box and hid it in her sock drawer. Draco was curious by nature and poked around quite a bit, but he seldom went back and _re_ -poked at places he’d already thoroughly investigated, so she figured most boring places within the flat were safe. With Valentine’s Day only a few short days away, she wanted it to at _least_ be a surprise (since the gift was a little uninspired).

 

“Hey, I’m heading to Pansy’s to grab one of my scarves she stole,” Draco called, from the living room. “Want to go?”

 

Hermione yanked off her work blouse. “Does she know you’re coming?”

 

“No.”

 

Laughing wryly, Hermione shimmied out of her skirt next. “You’re such a prat. Sure, I’ll go. Doesn’t she hate unannounced visitors? In fact, don’t I remember you telling me that the last time you dropped by unannounced, she hexed the bones in your arm into jelly?”

 

He meandered into the bedroom as she peeled her stockings off, his eyes instantly drawn to the motion and darkening a touch. Miraculously, he sounded perfectly normal when he answered: “Sure, but, to be fair, her flat _had_ just been burglarized a few months prior. Poor timing on my part. I used to drop by all the time right after graduation; it was the only place we could really be free from our parents.”

 

Balling up the stockings, she tossed them into the hamper and sat on the bed to rub the weird post-nylon feeling from her legs. “What would you guys do?”

 

Dropping beside her, he smoothed his arms over her other legs to “help.” Helping, in this instance, pretty much just meant that he was blatantly feeling her up. “Drank, mostly. Talked. Got _very_ drunk and talked too much, essentially,” he murmured, a little distracted as he traced his fingers up her inner thigh.

 

Sucking in a breath when his fingers hit the line of her knickers, Hermione mumbled, “Aren’t we going to Pansy’s?”

 

He shot her a smile, the half-smirking one that made her heart skip a beat or two (the same one that she slapped off his face back at school, it was a marvel what time did to a person) and let his eyebrows bounce a bit. “If she’s there now, surely she’ll be there in an hour.” Leaning in, he traced his tongue along the shell of her ear. When she shivered, he chuckled a bit. “Playing coy still?”

 

Swallowing a smile, Hermione fell backwards onto the bed and dragged him along with her. “Absolutely not,” she returned, unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers.

 

The smell of his potions work – always the faint aroma of crushed thyme, but now with something slightly citrus-y, a little floral – became more vibrant as she tore his shirt off, like it was imbedded directly into his skin. He sank against her, nibbling along her neck and collarbone as his hands roamed all over her body hungrily. He pushed her bra up and closed his teeth over her nipple, eliciting a moan.

 

“You reek of potions,” she managed, breathless.

 

He sucked her nipple, hard, and it pebbled in the chill when he released it and looked up at her. “You love it.”

 

She did, but damned if she’d ever admit it. She was willing to bet any amortentia would smell like this – earthy, resinous, the faintest hint of floral citrus.

 

“It’s leagues worse than my sunscreen.”

 

Draco froze and lifted himself up onto his arms, eyebrows raised incredulously. “First of all, I know you’re lying, and second of all, that is beyond all doubt the absolute worst thing you’ve ever said to my face, and you spent most of our formative years calling me a ferret.”

 

Curling her hands around the nape of his neck, she grinned up at him. “I did not. Ron and Harry did.”

 

“I am _certain_ you did,” he grumbled, as she applied steady pressure to his neck to try and make him sink back down. “Ninety-nine percent.”

 

“Far from certain, then,” Hermione retorted, and shifted gears to push him onto his back. Straddling him neatly, she leaned down to kiss him, languid and heated. She’d heard that as the years wore on in a marriage, the quality of sex would diminish – as would the quantity. At the moment, she really hoped that wasn’t true.

 

He gave up arguing, his fingers digging into her arse as he pulled her hips down against his. She could feel the hard length of him beneath his pants. “Clothes off,” he ordered, after a few more minutes of kissing.

 

“Say please.”

 

“Merlin, you are simply the _worst_ thing that has _ever_ happened to anyone, especially me—” He got her bra off and threw it off the side of the bed, clawing at her knickers until she finally laughed and rolled off him.

 

They quickly divested themselves of everything else and slammed together, both vying for the top spot. Draco eventually won, pressing her into the mattress as he kissed his way feverishly down her body, landing between her legs with the air of someone who very much knew their way around. Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair, looking down at him with satisfaction; his hair was always immaculate, and she always made a point to muss it at some point (he’d be irritated later when he realized).

 

Her moans filled the small bedroom, and then she was coming apart and he was crawling up the length of her to steal another kiss. The taste of herself on his lips gave her a heady feeling, and she cried out as he pushed into her, already over-stimulated from the orgasm.

 

He drank in her whining little sobs of pleasure like a man lost in the desert, and came in record time. Nothing these days beat the knowledge that he’d turned Hermione Granger into a puddle of bliss.

 

Absolutely nothing.

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

They showered before heading to Pansy’s. The Floo was still open after Pansy’s last party, so they spilled out into the foyer without a problem. It was very quiet, with only the little porcelain dog witnessing their entry. It seemed disapproving, somehow.

 

Draco didn’t seem bothered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and sauntering through the front room towards the dining room, where he suddenly stopped.

 

Hermione barreled into him, swallowing a curse. “Draco, what—”

 

As she leaned around him, she saw Pansy Parkinson sitting stiffly in her chair, looking _quite_ guilty – or maybe just embarrassed. The reason for this became apparent when Hermione’s brain sluggishly realized that she wasn’t _alone_ , and was, in fact, having tea with—

 

“Luna?” she asked, bewildered.

 

The dreamy blonde smiled. “Hermione! I had a feeling I’d be seeing you today,” she said, rising to circle around the table and wrap her in a hug.

 

Stunned, Hermione returned it uncertainly and glanced sidelong at Draco, who apparently hadn’t even recovered from his initial surprise. He was just staring at Pansy, whose embarrassment was quickly turning to irritation. “Hi, Luna. I didn’t know you were in town.”

 

Pansy’s arms crossed as she leveled a sincerely terrifying glare at Draco. “I suppose you’ve forgotten how to owl ahead?” she demanded, her voice icy.

 

Swallowing a bit, Draco glanced at the window. “Oh, is Hercules not here, yet? I thought—”

 

“Save it,” the petite brunette snapped, rising abruptly from her chair. “If you’re here for that ugly scarf, I have it in the other room. Hurry up!” Her back was still rigid as she turned to sweep out of the dining room, although Hermione didn’t miss the tell-tale flush dusting her sharp cheekbones.

 

Luna released Hermione to hug Draco, who patted her back awkwardly.

 

Pansy’s voice struck from the other room like a whip. “Draco!”

 

“Shite,” he whispered, the faintest wince touching his features as he escaped Luna’s hug and rushed to follow Pansy, his shoulders a little hunched against the scolding he knew was headed his way. As he disappeared, Hermione turned wide eyes to Luna.

 

Luna just smiled benignly, and Hermione finally broke the silence with, “Ssssoooo… how long has… this? Been going on?”

 

“Tea?”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “ _No_ , Luna, tea _here_ , with Pansy – since when are you two friends? Do you two… have you been talking? I just – you never mentioned anything,” she managed, stumbling a bit over her words. Because really, she didn’t know _what_ she’d just walked into. Was this tea between friends?

 

Was it _more_ than that?

 

Luna smiled brightly. “Oh, we’ve been corresponding by owl for some time now! I finally came back to town yesterday. I was going to visit you next!”

 

Corresponding by owl. Pansy. And Luna. Hermione’s mind tried to wrap around it and went promptly blank.

 

Shaking her head a bit to try and clear it, Hermione toyed with the idea of asking if this _was_ just friendship. After several stops and starts, she murmured, “I didn’t know you two were…”

 

“Flirting?” Luna asked, brightly, and Hermione choked on her own spit. “Oh, yes, for some time, now. It’s hard to tell for most people, I think. Not a lot of other people flirt by being mean to one another. She’s very different.”

 

“Yes, she is,” Hermione agreed, slowly. “So are you two--?”

 

Luna waited a beat, and then supplied: “Dating?”

 

“… Right.”

 

“No, not yet. I don’t think she realizes that I know she’s flirting. She doesn’t seem to think I’m very observant,” the blonde explained, in the same cheerfully absent tone she always used. “But she’s quite nice to talk to, when she doesn’t have an audience. She’s kind, deep down.”

 

Hermione’s mind took her back to that moment on Harry’s porch so many months prior, when Pansy had excused herself from the party to smoke. Pansy’s long pause and then quietly sincere “ _Thank you for inviting me_ ” echoed in her head for a moment. “Yeah,” she murmured, thoughtfully. “She is a little nicer without the audience. What about the nargle infestation?”

 

“Practically gone!” Her face brightened exponentially. “I was surprised, myself. She must really be trying to make some changes. I’m so glad for her.”

 

“So you… like her, too?” she tried, cautiously.

 

Luna nodded, but whatever she’d been about to say was interrupted by Draco and Pansy re-emerging from the other room. He had his scarf in one hand and looked thoroughly chastened, while Pansy continued to look quietly furious at the unexpected intrusion. “I thought it’d be funny,” he muttered to her by way of defense, and grimaced when she shot him a laser-like glare.

 

“Well, you have your scarf, so I expect you’ll be returning home for dinner,” Pansy commented, her voice even and calm, like the dead of winter.

 

Hermione grabbed another quick hug from Luna and forced a slightly-uncertain smile. “Of course. So sorry to interrupt. Enjoy your tea.” She grabbed Draco’s elbow and quickly turned to speedwalk back towards the Floo. Dropping her voice, she hissed, “You have the worst ideas.”

 

“You were completely on board with it _ten minutes ago_ ,” he defended, in a furious whisper. Grabbing the box of Floo powder, he quickly ushered them both back to their flat.

 

Once on the other side, Hermione waited several beats and then exploded: “ _Wow_ , oh my _God_ , oh my God!”

 

“Pretty much,” he agreed, still looking a little shell-shocked.

 

“We have to go to Harry’s right now. Ginny is going to pee her pants. I have to owl Ron and Susan,” she realized, eyes still wide with the revelation of it. “They’re not going to want to miss this. Oh, my God!”

 

“Woah, woah,” Draco argued, grabbing Hermione shoulder to tow her back to him. “This is… a private matter for Pansy and we’ve already got a black mark against us. I don’t think we should be giving her more reasons to stay angry at us. I don’t know if you’ve seen her truly angry, Hermione, but it _is_ quite intimidating and I’d really rather avoid it.” He even _looked_ a little panicked at the idea, eyes wide and somber as his fingers dug into her shoulder.

 

Hermione pointed back at the Floo. “That wasn’t her being ‘truly angry’? She looked ready to cut you in half,” she scoffed.

 

“It gets worse!” he promised. “Believe me. No shouting it to all your friends.”

 

She groaned. “Ginny is going to kill us if we keep it a secret and suddenly Pansy and Luna are dating and we knew it all along. Who are you more scared of?”

 

“Pansy,” Draco said, immediately, with a scoffing laugh. “By a _wide_ margin. She will burn our entire building to the ground and salt the earth, and not feel so much as a twinge of guilt. What’s the worst Ginny will do? Make bogeys fly out of our noses? I’ll take the bogeys.”

 

Putting her hands on her hips, Hermione stared at him. “You’ll take the bogeys,” she repeated, incredulous. “Pansy is almost certainly not that frightening.”

 

“If Pansy comes after me, I will not hesitate to use you as a human shield.”

 

Squawking indignantly, Hermione groaned and turned to stomp into the kitchen. “This is so unfair. Finally I have gossip that isn’t about _me_ to share, and I can’t even share it. Also, Ginny is going to set my hair on fire if she finds out I knew.”

 

“So don’t tell her, and act surprised,” he suggested, calmly.

 

Throwing her hands up, Hermione huffed, “What about Luna’s personality has suggested to you that she can keep a secret?”

 

Crossing his arms mulishly, he insisted, “No gossip. Promise me.”

 

Sighing, Hermione dropped the kettle onto the stove. “Fine,” she agreed, with a faint whine. “I swear, if this was one of my friends, you’d gleefully run to your little Slytherin cabal to spread it around. I bet you’d even owl Theo.”

 

“Well, your friends are about as threatening as a bucket of tadpoles, so yes, that is a strong possibility.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

His arms closed around her from behind as she fussed with the tea bags, face digging through her hair to find the skin of her neck and press a hot kiss to it. “You love me.” She grunted stubbornly, and he gave her a little squeeze before adding, “And I love you.”

 

“Hngh,” she managed. His fingers dug into her ribs and she shrieked, tossing the teabags wide as she tried to clamp her arms down. When she couldn’t twist herself free of the tickle-attack, she screeched, “Oh, my God, I love you, too! Stop!”

 

The barrage halted immediately. As her laughter died, he tightened his arms around her, content to just hold her while they waited for the water to boil.

**Author's Note:**

> TBC...


End file.
